A car passes by, its tires soft on the street

gliding through the pine-filled boardwalk,

hollow sounds meeting the ear as it wanders

through the air and lampposts glint with remembrance.

It is a summer night in a vacation city, and they are

whispering through the murmurs of an acacia

stretching its arms over the ballooning skirt of a girl

and the swish of a man’s shorts rubbing together,

passing by as the afternoon has passed. Moment to moment

they turn to each other as tires on the gravel, their voices

like car doors that slam at once, smarting like a hand

on the brake as the car parks—they are talking

about mundane things—dishes left to wash,

chores and laundry, but in their voices gather

the weight of their ghostly past. Over and over

it squeals silently like all the lights of a stoplight.

Seemingly with you but without you, I am

at once beholden to your promises one long ago day,

our heads turning to the other in angles

that indicated intimacy—but that was then.

Summer nights like these seem to never end,

but all has ended, yet still I turn to your voice

as a driver looks in the rearview for a glance

back at an incoming collision. The couple’s gone,

the waves are nearby, crashing with the opulence

of a chorus of seafoam. This is all that’s left

in the town you abandoned. I look up at the stars,

above the streetlights, above the monotone darkness,

and think I can walk along this road alone for miles.

All around me, I can see the intermingled hues,

and hear almost a comforting ring of rescue.