Allen and the Camaro

Bent over the hood of an old red Chevy,

up to my elbows in thick black oil,

staring at his white shirt moving up and down

with the heavy breaths of his frustration.

I tried to interpret the smirk on his face,

and in all the time that we were together,

I never determined its true meaning.

The engine of his favorite car lay in pieces

amidst the jaded dandelions and fresh grass.

the air stank of spring in the fall of our love;

a winter on the horizon line we could not see,

Now that all things are dead inside me,

I wander back to those sleepy moments

when I would do anything to hear him speak;

his eyebrow raised at me sarcastically

and I drank his words like the rich drink wine.

There were nights when I lay on his bed

staring that the spinning fan above me,

watching the glow of the 60 watt bulbs

dance on the blades of the knives on his walls.

I did this many nights once I grew tired

of staring at his mussed, thick, black hair

and listening to the sounds of his frustration

as he bent over his computer screen.

I was jealous of her keys, lights, and displays,

because they held his attention so fiercely;

in a way I did not even as I kissed his lips.

I suppose that should have been a hint to me.

If I could not truly reach him even then,

how would I reach him as the sky fell on us?

That was the Autumn that it all fell on top of us.

Sitting on my wooden steps in cut-off blue jeans,

I listened as he cried and felt the salt

as it slid down my cheeks and to my lips.

Then, with one last surge of strength,

I pulled his rough, square jaw to my shaky lips

and he kissed me with a passion I had missed.

I stood there shaking in the autumn breeze

watching his back and that dark hair again.

I willed him back to my arms and I prayed

that it was finally and certainly the end.