We spent last summer wound in each other's arms
In the front of my beat up Ford S80.
Her blouse would be half unbuttoned and she'd always smell of lemon pancakes and old pine-wood.
I remember the sunsets; in the rear-view mirror the sky would glow behind her, light her hair up like an angel's halo.
We would pull into a gas station, I'd get out first, open her door from the outside like they did in the movies.
I'd pump the gas and she'd go into the store for something, a coke, refreshers, a cup of black coffee.
They always made it from grounds, in one of those glass jugs.
We'd drive on into the night, welcoming the cool desert air,
then we'd pull over into some motel and open the blinds.
We could lie there forever, staring up at the whirring ceiling fan, wrapped in those noisy, crisp sheets.
We'd make love to the sound of cicadas and the faint chitchat on RadioWax.
Then the sun would come up and we'd move on again.
As August came and went, so did our desert nights,
and now I only see her in the polaroid that sits on my nightstand.