my boots are up on the
dashboard of your car
dried mud on the soles
stuck in the treads
but i don’t think you mind

because we’re going to
the coast and you’re singing
along with the songs on the
radio like we do this
all the time

and your voice is scratchy
in a way that makes my teeth hurt
but i realize it’s not a metaphor
i’ve just been clenching my jaw

a coil of nerves
tightening around the cold and
greasy food that we
decided to call breakfast

this is not a foreign feeling
just one i have grown unaccustomed
to having
this guilt over who i love

‘cause i’m way too good
at trapping myself in unrequited pining
unable to figure out if you
care enough not to point it out
or if you’re really just
that oblivious

but none of that matters now
because all i want to do
is run my hands
that may or may not be shaking
through the curls in your hair

and you might even let me
this time