Dreaming old dreams, wishing old wishes.

Sometimes, in the most random of moments while simply driving around, I'll see your car. Even the slightest bit of you makes a deep crimson rise to my face, seeing your ear or the back of your neck. And suddenly in that moment I can hear the bass of your music, too loud, too sharp, too perfect. Even the junk sounded good while I was there beside you. Singing along, messing up the lyrics, but getting them right. Dancing dangerously as our parents have warned us not to. Seeing your car, exactly how I remember it; the shade of the color, the rust spots, the dents and curves, it almost makes me believe again. Seeing your jawline, even from a distance and through layers of windshield glass, and I can hear the bass again. But you can't hear mine. I don't have faith in that; anymore.

I am happy, I swear.