You and me and that old Chevelle, the way the trees hung over us, a canopy.

Night and you and me, all of us hiding from streetlights and scenery.

Like if I could only see you, could only smell you, could only taste you

then I might belong to you, and the night, and the heat, and this car.

We are too old for this now, bound up in obligations and money and stress.

I could take you back there but the memories would not make it beautiful.

The streetlights slant in through the blinds, you are not entranced by me.