he remembers.

He was a pick-up truck dreamer and she was show tunes.

They were both feet-on-the-dashboard people,

but she only looked when he stopped talking.

The rest of it was just white noise.

No revenge kisses and the conversations didn't last long.

It was dry eyes, but one pair burned more than the other.

He talked about her once, but never said her name again,

talking about the way she scanned everyone
but their eyes sat behind glass walls,
never to see each other right.

I remember the day he forgot her, 
under the stars when he couldn't spell her name right

and we laughed, 

but it bruised him a little, hearing it.

It was like a band-aid, those 3 seconds of black eyes,

mad at himself for forgetting her,

mad for remembering.

For remembering her

when she didn't need to be remembered.

Put bad hearts on the record player

and they run and run until no one wants to listen,

and you'll remember the lyrics

but won't have to hear it.

spell L-O-V-E without a return policy,

but it's the kind of plastic that looks like glass,

but isn't glass.

He remembers believing it was glass.

She wasn't watching,

and he wasn't looking,

until he saw real love on the other side of his sweat,

wiped his forehead,

and left her with it:

with shards of uneven love,

that wasn't even real.