The poems are quieter now—
the words more whispered
than written, the wind streaming
into the open car windows as
Nirvana plays and your Subaru races
down Baxter Avenue and back to my place.

The passenger seat of his car
now feels like home.

I vow never to forget this moment,
sitting in your car watching the sunset
over the middle school football fields
too scared to look you in the eye
yet praying for the space between us
to no longer be big enough for Jesus.