It lingers through open windows, unnoticed, until you point out what my face can't hide. Isn't this the way things are until they aren't anymore? Go cry about it, why don't you - he sings, and we sway, but our eyes never meet.
Your shoulder, the spot where I let myself fall, fall. This heat fills up the silence, but that's never been enough. Water, you say, or whiskey. Crickets, gasoline dripping through empty tanks, stars that are within reaching distance - this is what it feels like.
Hazel is the color of this rug we're tangled up in. It's the ring of cold coffee in your mug. It's a blank stare that says what we're both afraid to admit aloud. Don't you think we should have learned somehow, he sings.
It's a summer breath, a breath of summer, a night of unattainable whispers and magic that won't happen. Consuming much, fingers wrap around mugs and the rickety legs of old tables. It's not a silly little moment, it's not the storm before the calm, he says as you reach for the radio.
Words can't save us, anyway. You reach for your jacket, I put on my watch, and the hazel drifts off onto the porch. I let go of the mug and switch the station. Gravel yelps from beneath sore tires and remnants of a shared something haunts a muzzled candor.
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