By Vivian Chiang
On the inhale it burns,
leaves a scorch in
the back of the throat,
makes my voice scratchy.
A love song, one
everyone knows the words to,
but they don’t see you
framed against the shadows
between day and night,
everything pink and blue.
They don’t hear the soft
creak of your shitty suspension
taking careful corners
in the hills of your neighborhood.
They don’t see the tremble of
my fingers as I place
my hand over yours over
the gearshift. All they see
is me, neon,
voice warbling and
smoke curling into
the sticky summer air.
Contributor Bio
Vivian is a fourth year student studying English at Ramapo College.