Your empty gaze was the crack in the road,
staring past the pool colored
almost the same shade as last summer's paint job
meant to cover up the scratches
you left on the passenger door
when you were one tequila past sober.
I am a fly trapped in this spiderweb crack
that catches the blue-red urgency of
midnight sirens that you summoned without speaking.
They can't drown out the soundtrack
of our last sixteen seconds,
all caught in my head as if to prove
I don't want it there.
You looked up from letting your fingers linger
on the radio dial when your song came on,
laughing about how it reminded you of cotton candy
and your first boyfriend's cologne,
when your summer eyes caught the headlights,
like stained glass in full sun,
and all you could say was
You always talked about how
if you had three wishes you'd spend one on flying,
but I don't think this is what you meant.
I still have dreams about you telling me
the experience wasn't worth it.
I still reach for telephone to tell you
about that nightmare,
beg you to wish for money instead before
I remember how you looked out of place
in a mahogany box, in your floral dress.
I'm not sure what a sinking heart sounds like,
but I imagine it sounds like a car crash.