risque purple walls silences the wails of the city
i point out the different stars of the tired sky
concealed in a fuzzy gray blanket he mumbles
Words like an old worn record on a turntable

the backseat feels roomy with the three of us
he kicks back with a well mannered quip
and she combs through my unevenly cut hair
with her cold yet articulate fingers

she throws her feet over the wooden frame of my yard
i point out the different birds in the bright sky
gray sleeves rolled up to her elbows she laughs
Eyes like an aged beauty of the unobtainable past

the backseat feels comfortable with the three of us
she makes a light joke prodding him and his habits
and he snorts a chuckle while fiddling with my uneven hair
my chest warm as the soft sigh of summer