We shoved clothes and our hopes and dreams in boxes.
I slapped a check — and the rest of my paycheck — on the desk.
We took one last look, embracing before we turned our memories off,
leaving this town with a bad reputation.
She handed me the keys.
We traveled back from Carolina to Seattle, driving in her 1964 Chevelle SS.
The sky released snow like I hadn’t seen in years.
I caught a stone she threw against my heart.
Her long blonde hair swings from side-to-side in the chilly wind,
warming my heart.
We unloaded our life and decorated the walls with nothing much at all.
She knocked twice, but mice didn’t race through the walls.
Her teeth shined with a smile.
Andrew Cyr
Drink Coffee Write 