It was 10:30 at night
and we were parked in my drive way
sitting in your car.
We were both unusually over-tired
and you were so indecisive
about how you
were feeling.

I listened to you talk about him
and why you loved him
and why he didn't love you
and why he never would.
And, oh, how I wished I could tell you
that I loved you,
but I knew it wouldn't be enough.

You talked about his hair,
and his voice
and the way he didn't care about
what everyone else thought.
You made him sound
so, so wonderful
turning him into poetry
as you spoke.

I knew he was
everything you wanted
right down to the way he laughed
and the clothes he wore.
Some days
you were extra in love
and others you were extra out.
But most days
were a mixture of the two.

"Maybe love doesn't exist,"
you said as you
threw yourself against the seat,
your hair a mess
over your shoulders.
"Maybe it's just a facade,
a nice thought."
But I knew it existed
because I felt it
every time I looked
at you.