When I hear my favorite song, I see you from the passenger seat of your gleaming white BMW. 

White like the purity of your first Wisconsin snowfall, and you thought it was dandruff.

Behind the curtain of purity peeks mischief that smells of your cologne. 

When I smell your cologne, it feels like the soft red fabric of your Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt against my cheek. 

When I wear that sweatshirt, stolen from your closet, your laugh echoes around all the extra space. 

When there is space between us, it is pale blue like rain. 

When it rains, I am chilled like when your eyes meet mine. 

When your eyes meet mine, I hear my favorite song.