Glove Compartment Gum

You pulled up in your old, green car and gave me the look you always used to. The look I knew like the back of my hand. The look that healed all of my wounds. The smug smile that made your freckles look like fallen stars. The smirk that turned me from someone’s daughter, to someone’s love.
But I shouldn’t smile at you anymore. You left. Packed up faster than I could ask why. But just because I shouldn’t do something, doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I want to get into the front seat, steal the gum from your glove compartment, and ask why you left. 
Part of me is yelling that I shouldn’t say anything. The past is over and done with. That old, green car isn’t something I should care about. But yet, I still do. 
You left me in the kind of heartbreak that time will never fix. The kind that they don’t talk about. The heartbreak that teen movies don’t teach us. You left, decided I wasn’t worth it, and moved on. 
So I walked away. Away from the old, green car that changed my definition of home. Away from the shattered glass you left me with. And away from the person who left me. Because glove compartment gum and rides in the old, green car aren’t worth the heartbreak that they never covered.