Parallel Lines

Two-way highway ahead and I'm going 79 on a stretch of 65, clearly not thinking.
About driving, anyways.
The four lanes blend to two, and I get in the fast lane, thinking of you.
Black hair.
Brown eyes.
Eyes that smile.
A car pulls up next to me, also speeding, aligned with me, and neither of us pull away from the other, staying parallel for a stretch.
It's funny how much you and I are the same.
Two parrallel lines.
Two copies. Perfect copies.
Key and a lock.
If I say the lines, will you say them with me, I wonder?
I slow down, focus more on driving.
When I stop, there is a man playing a yukalaylee on a porch, smiling, squinting with the sun in his face. My music plays loud and streams into my car through of my open windows, and my stereo is going, but the beat of my stereo seems to blend with the strings of his song. I wave and he nods.
I smile as I think how much we blend perfectly together.