Rot-gut Rye Regret

A million miles ago,
the moon took me away.
Whiskey on your breath,
pressure on my spine.
"Please, baby, please."
All right.
Memories run faster
    than my car.
Grass, prickly and dry
on my legs, reminders
  that
I was still there.
Until the moon took me away.
You were
         not quite what I wanted.
Too much, too harsh, in need of
everything I had.
But my heart just begged
(harder, faster) for someone.
So I lay in the field
  and gave
what I had,
and let the moon take me away.
And no matter how far down
I push the gas pedal,
you still have what I gave.
Memories chase me like
rabid dogs.
I'm running out of fuel.