Our grimy, “antique”
lemon yellow car never reaches sixty. We travel on back roads, side roads,
losing ourselves in the journey and loving every moment. A cracked window,
loosely hanging door, and ripped leather seats bound by duct tape epitomize our
thrifty teenage years. Fuzzy black dice and Mardi gras necklaces hang from a
mirror permanently smudged by make-up application. The radio can be a faint murmur,
white noise in the background of our vicious arguments and heartfelt apologies
or the music can blare out, rattling the windows and bursting our eardrums as
we shriek along to All Time Low. My very soul lies embedded in that jalopy, a
part of me forever missing.
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