you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and she is reading other people’s words like she will die trying, voice a honeysuckle flower with the sweet leeched out to bleed against your treacherous gums, sorrow beating against the windshield like a trapped bird and she won’t tell you she loves you because she doesn’t you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and it is the first time and it is the last time, and you will be in a dozen cars with a dozen beautiful girls before the next birthday you can imagine but none of them will look like her, unshed tears catching the orange glow of the passing streetlights and fingers flexing against the dogeared pages of a book of words she used to gasp into the air between you while your hands flexed and bent inside her, and she won’t tell you she loves you because she never has. you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and you are throwing spent cliches at the wall like cooked spaghetti to see what will stick while her fingers trace lines of you are jeff into the scarred-sobbed skin on the inside of your thigh. you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and you think that there are days when poetry is just something to say, effervescent white noise for the young and desperately searching, and she won’t tell you she loves you because it would be too easy you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and she won’t tell you she’s leaving, but she’s leaving. you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and she won’t tell you she’s sorry, but she’s sorry. you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and the lilt of the words she’s borrowing to fill a silence that will ache out wide inside of you for weeks and months and years to come, will taste of honeysuckle in the darkness of a dozen cars against the lips of a dozen beautiful girls, is anything but poetry (and you won’t tell her you love her, but you love her)
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