Don't Cry on the Car Ride Home, You're Driving Now

It's been a while since this wheel was under your hands, and you were under him.

You hold the sky on your shoulders

because you can no longer hold me.

The clouds tangle in your hair

frizzed from the humidity of the troposphere,

you blow them away from the scruff on your cheeks

with your teaspoon-of-cough-syrup,

just-half-a-cigarette breath.

When it rains I smell your cologne,

musky and spicy and warm,

especially in our busted 1980s car,

raindrops dripping from the whipping blades,

into the cracked window,

my hands in the same spots

worn by your calloused fists,

listening to a Warrior’s Concerto,

loved from a mixed tape tucked between pages

of an atlas of the world you’re still,

always protecting.

Reviews

[Meraki]

That's bittersweet but it's almost like it's a loss that's already been accepted.