places of love: inside of a car

When you step in the car, you drag along the blue sky so large that I shrink to accommodate you: I draw my thighs close to me, rest the crook of my neck on the knotted muscles of your throat where the smell of pine wood and evening sun stay.

When sadness descends like petrol fumes and burn the tissues in the hollow
of my eyes, that is when I tell you to open the window and let the cool breeze  from hills staunch the ooze of memory.

The head light of the car pools in my eyes, stars purple like burnt skin sear
my tongue where the taste of your tobacco locks me in an emptiness that burns
like an ulcer that will not heal.

Day 3
Poem a day, NaPoWriMo 2013

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