Once

you told me, once, of the gas

you spilled while filling your tank.

i think of that every time

i slip the nozzle in, pull the lever up.

Every time.

do you know what that's like?

to think of you years and years,

long after you've left.

This poem came to me while I was filing gas. I didn't have enough time to write it down, so this is a mere imitation of the original concept.