You sat with one hand on the dashboard,
your other one shaking,
reluctantly dancing with a cheap cigarette,
that you were simply burning,
because something needed to die.
We didn't look each other in the eye,
except in the rear view mirror,
the irony not yet reflected.
I will never forget that six thousand mile stare,
many times your age shining from the endless deep,
the weight of everything you carry
written in ruptured veins.
"Old ghosts dancing again," I said.
"This is not very good," I whispered,
tightened throat and eyes aflame.
You echoed, and then you were gone.
I remained for a while, in that wreck of a Chevy,
marooned in a landscape of broken plastic,
trees of straws and cavernous containers,
all your books and other secret escapes.