There’s a key created. 

To kickstart the engine that is my heart. 

Yet now I find myself. 

Beneath a yellow hued stoplight in this midnight parking lot. 

Patting my pockets, and my bag for it. 

No familiar jingle is heard.

And now my body floods with nerves. 

Will I be trapped? 

In this field of tar and pale lemon lines. 

To my saving.

A large shadow appears to be approaching. 

Turning my head over my shoulder and 

I see you. 

Full of hubris and a hand out. 

In the spotlight of your palm stands a key. 

“I have a copy of yours” 

you say. 

Yet the meaning of how that could be is lost and filtered before entering my ears.

And I find my mere mice-like self running into your foxy arm. 

With my door ajar, and your hand on my thigh as I do. 

I twist the key in its ignition. 

The flutter of the engine teases me. 

Yet your key was enough to revive my engine. To start me up again.

Now I look, to share my gratitude and all I see is the same bleak lot, and a mark where your hand just was.

I should just drive off but now I’m stalled.

Turned on but immobile.

How long could this battery last?

Love is the lie that keeps us alive.