I miss wrapping my arms
around you under neon lights.
The smell of your t-shirt when my nose
was pressed against it in bed.
Watching the trail of cigarette smoke
sway side to side during deep conversations in cars.

I can still hear the roar of the highway,
at 7 a.m that June morning.
It blended in well like an oil painting;
next to the sun, The Beatles, and your smile.