Apples.

Always a sun-baked apple core on the dashboard.
It filled the car with a particular smell,
and it was good.

It smelled like soft, curly hair and wool sweaters.
It smelled like blasting the Counting Crows live version of “Mr. Jones,” and singing together even louder.
It smelled like your skin, your mouth, and kissing you on
brown, velvety, Honda seats.

It smelled like my first time driving stick.
It smelled like my first drive up a bumpy road, just to make-out.

It smelled like English class and parallel assigned seats.

It smelled like the most philosophical conversations I’ve ever had. It smelled like questioning God.
It smelled like graveyards and theme parks and mountain goats.

It smelled like innocence and deceit.

It smelled like our hearts gouged out with steel fingers.
It smelled like decision.

It smelled like candy machine rings and unconditional love.

Then all I could smell was goodbye.

All I could smell were chaos and lies.

Since then,

I stand sun-baked

as apple cores on dashboards.

Shriveled in spirit-

frozen in time like a mummified monument.

Looking my worst,

stinking up the place.

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