remember the old pickup truck?

remember the old pickup truck

with its decaying red paint,

as we drove across

the map of your thumbprint

like it was all we were certain of?

well me neither.

multiple times i’ve tried

to remove the white noise of the radio,

the heavy mess of

wretched springtime puddles

from the margins of my notebook.

but what’s erased isn’t always forgotten,

god dammit why

can’t it just be forgotten?

so don’t pause as i continue

the destruction of all that was,

for the fires in my mind

haven’t been so effective,

and the drunk driving has found me

parked at stop signs

in the dark.

so in the end, i suppose,

it wasn’t you and me,

but just your thumbprint

we were certain of.

i was certain of.