On piece of paper I found today, I had written last year-

1.
When the sky looked like an ugly 80's beach shirt,
with a toothpaste green and faded pink,
when it was foggy,
when directions told us we were in it
for a long stretch of highway.

2.
I returned the jacket you have me,
the one with the sleeves ripped for thumb holes,
but you shoved the broken music box
back into my crossed arms and I saw your eyes,
empty as the hollows in the engraved metal
of the box in my hands.
The gears turned a short song and I left.
Before the muggy black heat rose
I saw a young deer on the side of the road
with her skinny, shaky legs.
I told myself your writer's block might break.

3.
I tossed a dime in the pool and said, "same thing."

4.
We smoked cigarettes
when we wanted something in our hands and mouths
besides each other,
when the conversation was dead,
when we were hungry
or after we had just eaten,
sitting on wooden tables on the side of the road,
on nature hikes and in graveyards,
in parking lots, behind the news stand
and outside of Friendly Grounds,
when the sky looked like an ugly 80's beach shirt.