Sitting in the front seat of a rustic truck,
whose paint has seen more thunderstorms
than my skin has years,
you look so still,
like a porcelain doll,
with the fading light of the tired sky
casting its blue blankets over both our eyes.
Through the pitter-patter
as raindrops splatter on the roof,
in time with the erratic static
of the radios...
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