maybe it’s something in the echoes of verses

resounding from your car stereo.

or maybe it’s that this isn’t really your car,

and the only people i know now are strangers.

but for some reason,

i can feel quarters and dimes in my throat

(more than anything you've ever given me),

and i can’t remember how to do anything else but

let veins crawl down my skin,

let chords of a foolish song i wrote for you once in my naivety bleed down my cheek.



sitting in this car,

a song slipping somewhere into the deep crevices of my soul,

or heart,

or whatever you really want to call it,

i wish i knew what memories were,

because then maybe i would know how to get rid of them.



and i’m not really sure what you are to me,

and i don’t really know if this is me remembering you or not,

because all i really know how to do

is listen to ghostly fingers as they run through my hair,

and down my outer shell (who has quit his job),

and into places that i’m sure only exist in someone else’s creativity

(because i lack my own).





and i never want this song to end.