Before the Blue Car

The corners are sharp, uncreased and clean,

cutting through the dust of a hall closet bin.

You're nineteen here, leaning on a blue machine,

with a face that doesn't let the world in.

That hatchback is a ghost I never had to drive,

a piece of your life that didn't survive

to meet the version of you I used to know,

before you learned how to let the hurt show.

You're looking past the lens at a different street,

with a flat, cold stare that I couldn't repeat.

It’s a stranger in a polaroid, nineteen and tough,

back when being indifferent was almost enough.