if I squint my eyes, I can see a light snow on the morning of new years eve. if I close them, I see us in cars at night.
you’re wearing a black carhartt jacket, cigarettes in the velcro pocket, driving a ten-year-old Ford pickup truck. I’m in the passenger seat, counting each city we pass between our new and old hometown. the truck so wide I can’t even reach your hand.
I see us in Bubbie, the powder blue eighties Buick. no center console, only a middle front seat. I lean in close, your right arm around my side, counting each streetlight between two college towns, on a trek for the best pizza.
the red pontiac before the crash, we took a quick spin around Medina to get gas.
the two door black sports car with green sludge, when we weren’t together but kept close, idling in a parking lot.
the green Chrysler van, when you visited me a state’s length away, a smoky Pittsburgh bar, searching for vistas on Superbowl Sunday. a rekindled relationship. expired plates, cops and our first apartment.
our first brand new car, the Kia Forte and the tv stolen from the backseat.
when I open my eyes, I see us in youth, running out of gas on the highway in the ’72 Jeep. the same car we said I love you in for the first time.
it was new years eve, there was a light snow.