That Blue Car

Pressed, by the city heat in that blue car, permanently parked under embers of sunlight until the moon Breaks and swells in the sky, easing the metal. Making cracks in the colour and breaking the leather. Aged by fair weather and fairly harsh wear. It smells like… old and laughs and memories, sometimes like tears and cries and photographs. And it feels like them too. On my skin and pressed against my back, Grains of wishes and wants that now are dead. How far did you drive before you could see, The old concrete block that crushed your resolve that mangled and twisted you, buried you here? That caught you in pen immortalised you?