rain slips down my windshield

like a broken mirror

endless skewed versions of everything

are reflected back to me

I forgot how to turn on the wipers

they’re only supposed to run on high

fwip-fwip, fwip-fwip, fwip-fwip

my car has anxiety too

I fumble, turn dials, and search

for an answer I’ll remember

the wipers run on interval

(they haven’t done that in three years)

click—not fast enough

click—too quick

every swipe is a “he loves me”

or a “where did the affection go?”

I ask myself too many questions

I drive with no music

I am not in a love song mood

I ask myself why I ask so much

about why I have so many doubts

of course, I know that you love me

but I’ve come to find that

my rational thought is too much

like my wiper blades:

hard to find

slow to turn on

and three years without function