Inches of Skin

We both count the white lines

in the road as the old car carries us home.

I like the style of your clothes, the pea coat, the flat shoes,

the grey jeans.

The heater is broke and the radio plays static

low.

You hate the sound of your own voice,

and all I wish is to hear you sing.

Run red nails through your red hair

your red lips held tight.

When they break and you smile I catch

a glimmer in your eyes.

I don’t speak.

I realize that here, in the front seat,

we are nothing but inches of skin

separated by an armrest

and the past.

Here is a recorded version of the poem--spoken by me, with music by the great Luke Willis