My favorite picture of you
is pinned to the dash of this van,
three AM outside of Santa Fe,
your hair full of wind and cinnamon,
laughing like the map had surrendered.
I’m just a shadow filling the lens,
but you’re staring past every mile I haven’t driven yet,
holding the sunrise between your teeth,
making forever look like a rest stop we might actually afford.
If I ever lose the road, I’ll just close my eyes,
let that Polaroid steer—
your shoulders still warm from the last goodbye we never finished.