Olivia my drive-by
Someone pulled beside us in a car with Missouri plates, a surprised look on his face, and I wondered if it was you besides. But I was somehow afraid to look too long, so I kept walking. I thought maybe. But you could just call.
Was I here last Tuesday?
Outside at least? I don't remember being outside early.
I don't remember
the red and white decal at the corner of the
back window of the car we bought together and drove over the hills together with the roof open.
I don't remember
If that's the way you wore your hair
or what color it was
the last time I saw you.
I just remember a hole opening in the dirt and me falling in.
That's all I can recall.
Until last night, telling a friend about some restaurants, I drew out our dinner at the blue bird from a box and held it in my hands.
That's the last time I thought I might be alive in the end.