Half my body hangs out of the pick-up truck,
and I struggle to keep my cigarette
lit in the frosty fall air. Your jacket
held me snugly, smelling of beer and
the stale scent of pain you carried.
I searched out to find those old tours
of the past times, even if they weren't so great,
where it was okay to lose yourself in someone
so that they would find you in a memory.
Now, I only see a robbed woman
trying to find where all her time has flown.
My now pristine life, my perfect husband,
it all seemed so trivial and not my own.
All that floated back were the times in the truck,
times in which my lonely heart had been sewn.
Only there are things time cannot just tuck
under the rug, because they leave bumps
that can't be beaten out.
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