Braking and Breaking.
There’s something to be said for that split second between braking and breaking.
When at nearly thirty you spot her face through the car window like she’s there.
Both next to you and not.
The last face you’ll have the chance to, wish you, forgot.
It happens all at once.
Instinct to swear, to swerve, to move as the back wheel rides a curb.
You jabberwocky around, fishtail and slant a desire to react more but just can’t.
Then the storm has gone but feels like the eye.
The face vanished but something’s left behind and you’re fine.
For a while.
A while between braking and breaking.