mud

my boots are up on the

dashboard of your car

dried mud on the soles

stuck in the treads

but i don’t think you mind

because we’re going to

the coast and you’re singing

along with the songs on the

radio like we do this

all the time

and your voice is scratchy

in a way that makes my teeth hurt

but i realize it’s not a metaphor

i’ve just been clenching my jaw

a coil of nerves

tightening around the cold and

greasy food that we

decided to call breakfast

this is not a foreign feeling

just one i have grown unaccustomed

to having

this guilt over who i love

‘cause i’m way too good

at trapping myself in unrequited pining

unable to figure out if you

care enough not to point it out

or if you’re really just

that oblivious

but none of that matters now

because all i want to do

is run my hands

that may or may not be shaking

through the curls in your hair

and you might even let me

this time