you and me are old jerry cans
jostling in the back of a truck
spilling out with every bump in the road
sun beating down on the boards peaking through the worn red paint
the memory of her is the rust that falls every time he slams the side door
her hair was the colour of the sun in the rear view mirror
the faded pads on his dash board worn where her soft feet used to rest
the world is mute
the wind blows through him
taking slivers as it goes
her ghost is hidden in the old radio
and his tears are soaked in whisky
her laughter still spills over the back seat
their love feels like holding hands while driving
windows down
dust flying