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AbbyslovePoems
There are songs that feel like memories. And then there are songs that are memories. This one is you. It’s your truck rattling down back roads with dust rising behind us like something trying to follow but never catching up. It’s the way your voice filled small spaces — cab of the truck, my ribs, all the quiet places inside me that were finally starting to feel warm. You didn’t just sing it. You lived in it. Low, soft, a little wild — like you’d been everywhere and still chose to be right there next to me. And I remember watching you when you didn’t think I was. The way your eyes would flick over just to check if I was still smiling. Like you needed proof I was real. You were so beautiful it almost hurt — that stupid bright, easy smile, sun catching in your long blonde hair, wind pulling pieces of you loose like the world was trying to take you back. I thought I had time. I thought songs stayed songs. I thought moments stayed moments. I thought people stayed. But I know now — I was the storm in something that only needed calm. I was the sharp word, the missed feeling, the moment I chose to be immature over choosing you. And I would give anything to go back to that passenger seat and just… listen. The opening of it feels like someone unlocking a room I sealed shut. I hear it echoing in my head “Scar tissue that I wish you saw Sarcastic mister know-it-all Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, 'cause With the birds I'll share” And suddenly I’m back there — seatbelt digging into my shoulder, air rushing in through open windows, you drumming the steering wheel, singing like you didn’t know you were becoming something I’d never be able to let go of. I wish I had been softer. I wish I had been better at understanding. I wish I had known how rare it was to be looked at like that. Because now every note feels like proof that something beautiful can exist and still not stay — especially when I was the one who let it slip through my hands. I want to listen to it again. I really do. But I know the truth — If I ever pressed play, I wouldn’t just want the song. I’d want your headlights in my driveway. I’d want you telling me to get in. I’d want the road and your music and your hand reaching across the console like it used to. I’d want you to take me back to your place, like time was something we could rewind, like I hadn’t broken the quiet we built around each other. Because Scar Tissue isn’t a song I can’t sing alone. It catches in my throat without your voice under mine. It was never mine. It was ours. And some songs don’t survive the person who taught you how to hear them.
0
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 3:45 PM UTC
Scar Tissue
There are songs that feel like memories. And then there are songs that are memories. This one is you. It’s your truck rattling down back roads with dust rising behind us like something trying to follow but never catching up. It’s the way your voice filled small spaces — cab of the truck, my ribs, all the quiet places inside me that were finally starting to feel warm. You didn’t just sing it. You lived in it. Low, soft, a little wild — like you’d been everywhere and still chose to be right there next to me. And I remember watching you when you didn’t think I was. The way your eyes would flick over just to check if I was still smiling. Like you needed proof I was real. You were so beautiful it almost hurt — that stupid bright, easy smile, sun catching in your long blonde hair, wind pulling pieces of you loose like the world was trying to take you back. I thought I had time. I thought songs stayed songs. I thought moments stayed moments. I thought people stayed. But I know now — I was the storm in something that only needed calm. I was the sharp word, the missed feeling, the moment I chose to be immature over choosing you. And I would give anything to go back to that passenger seat and just… listen. The opening of it feels like someone unlocking a room I sealed shut. I hear it echoing in my head “Scar tissue that I wish you saw Sarcastic mister know-it-all Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, 'cause With the birds I'll share” And suddenly I’m back there — seatbelt digging into my shoulder, air rushing in through open windows, you drumming the steering wheel, singing like you didn’t know you were becoming something I’d never be able to let go of. I wish I had been softer. I wish I had been better at understanding. I wish I had known how rare it was to be looked at like that. Because now every note feels like proof that something beautiful can exist and still not stay — especially when I was the one who let it slip through my hands. I want to listen to it again. I really do. But I know the truth — If I ever pressed play, I wouldn’t just want the song. I’d want your headlights in my driveway. I’d want you telling me to get in. I’d want the road and your music and your hand reaching across the console like it used to. I’d want you to take me back to your place, like time was something we could rewind, like I hadn’t broken the quiet we built around each other. Because Scar Tissue isn’t a song I can’t sing alone. It catches in my throat without your voice under mine. It was never mine. It was ours. And some songs don’t survive the person who taught you how to hear them.
https://youtu.be/mzJj5-lubeM?si1Xp2unHFtaTzfMM2
#rhcp
Abbyslove
Written by
Abbyslove
18/F/Al
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 3:45 PM UTC
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