Broken down, it’s a season of cold ground. You’ll wish it differently, as everyone will but perhaps, You. You with the halo hanging dangerously slanted, you’ll wish this differently more than the others. Spoken softly, the words would linger like smoke in the car. She's sitting right next to you and your mind convinces you that you could cross it, reach out and risk ruining the mood, reach out a few inches to the warm body sitting right there. She's right there. Next time you will, though. Next time will be easier.
You don’t though and maybe that’s why you’ll wish it differently more than the others, because the chance was there. You could have talked. Maybe she would have started smiling again.You just couldn’t move past those inches. Insurmountable, the distance behind those eyes. It wouldn’t have mattered if you had chanced it, the distance of fields and rivers and streams and of maps and latitudes of thousands of millions of miles behind those eyes. She didn't want anyone to try, and certainly not you. Rationalize it, pretty boy. Make it right in your head so it can stop feeling so wrong.
Run those fingers over the stick shift, she’s gone now. Her heavy quiet still idles in your engine and you play your music loud to kill the silence and it never really works, does it?
It seems impossible; to accept, to comprehend the complete lack of her. Everything has changed [Mental note, that's cliche. Later, when you go over your thoughts, change it. Be better. Be real. Be human about the whole thing], it's not necessarily bad. No, bad wouldn't be the word for you, would it? No, just different. You can feel a sleepiness in everything. It feels like you're underwater and the rest of the world is strangely muted, far away. And any moment you almost feel like it's all going to change back. You miss not thinking about these things. You miss being awake. But it doesn't matter, does it? Nothing really matters, because everything hasn't really changed. It's just in your head. Every lamp post, every street sign, it's all still in the same place as it was. It's just different, right?
When it's time to talk, when you suddenly don't hate the idea of saying those words, of ruining the mood, when you actually want to hear it all come out of her mouth;
You'll turn that limber torso to the seat next to you. You'll stop the car, mute the music, and you'll turn. Somehow, it's not as lonely when she's not here. But you don't care. You miss it. You miss the awkward car rides. You miss the small talk. It feels like dreaming;
[[my sickness reminds you of your mother and you hate me for it. how she mewled from bed all skinnysick. how she used to be so beautiful that the men would bring her flowers and sing her songs. and how you cried because you couldn't even stand her anymore and you wrote to your brother everyday and he never replied and you hate him for that. she had no one and i've got no one and you'll always have to take care of us.
you still write to your brother. and you still check the mail. and he doesn't call but you wait