A poetic monologue about an imagined kiss during a drive home, described like a movie's opening and closing scenes. The speaker insists it's not real, that you don't exist, and can't remember an actual kiss. It feels like the end of a story already seen.
But it's over. Then you're driving me home, and it kinda comes out as I get up to go. You kiss me in your car, and it feels like the start of a movie I've seen before. But it's not real, and you don't exist, and I can't recall the last time I was kissed. It hits me. In the car, and it feels like the end of a movie I've seen before. Before.
