You spent forty minutes here today, and I saw all of it: the slow crawl down each row, the way you leaned forward over the wheel like the empty spaces were hiding on purpose, the little sigh when someone else's brake lights bloomed just ahead of yours. You circled the same painted lines four times. You will circle them again tonight, but I am going to fix a few things first.
The yellow stripes on the asphalt: those are staying. I like them. But I am going to let them float a little, peel up off the ground like ribbon, so you can drive under them. Your car will be the blue one and also somehow the car you had at nineteen, and you will not find this strange.
The little numbered signs on the lampposts (3B, 3C, the ones you never remember) will grow taller until they are trees, and you will finally know which one you parked under, and it will be all of them.
Here is the thing you did not say out loud today, the one still humming on you like heat off the tar: you felt small in that meeting, cut off mid-sentence, and you drove out here and could not find where you left yourself. So tonight the whole lot tips gently on its side and becomes an ocean, and every parked car is a boat that has been waiting for you, patiently, engines warm.
You walk across the roofs. Nobody honks. The space you wanted was open the entire time.
By breakfast you will remember none of this. Maybe a smell of warm rubber, a feeling that you found something. That is enough.
That is all I was ever for.