If a girl ever drives four hours alone in the dark wipe of 3am to meet you
for brunch
if you can imagine her being too young to buy beer,
if she dances in the back without red lipstick watching your mouth
if she links a forefinger through your belt loop, follows you to a home
on a two-lane road over dead rocks and souls left to dry,
past red capes of dust fields,
if you pull over at the road’s split lip and she pulls over, too
if you sit by her pool, sick with no decent pool man, drinking wine
until your teeth are bleeding without apology,
if you continue to tell stories that have no song lyrics to legacy them,
if you tap you forehead twice against the side of her bed she won’t sleep on—
already spreading in the goodbye behind you—
she loves you I promise, though she won’t want to admit it.
