I taught you to drive in my five-hundred-dollar car

with power everything from Detroit.

Some of it still worked, if coaxed.

 

The fucking brakes were so sensitive

I hit my head on the dash

when you pressed the pedal too hard.

The car stopped, but not my memories.

 

We drove to the beach at night

and launched bottle rockets out into the sea

from the pitted chrome fender.

Maybe the only thing left on the exterior

that hadn’t completely surrendered to rust.

 

Your dress was barely enough,

but just enough for everyone to see

it was really only for me.

 

Taking a pull on the tequila beside the fire pit in the sand,

our youth didn’t understand this would become the past

and how it would sometimes pinprick regret

over the broken pieces that wouldn’t last.