(My Dear Old) Etcetera

As we sat wrapped together,
the dank of the field catching
between the wrinkles and under
the cuffs of our jeans, the indigo
seeping onto our legs and fading into
our laps, we spoke the steel trill
of traintracks and you whispered
the melancholy of wanderlust
in between hollow whistles.

The train chattered transience
as we pressed back to your car and
further home, keeping beat on the dash
as you counted stagnant green
signs of places we’d visit, and places
we’d never see.

In the space between songs
and at each pit stop, we’d grip
the leather of your seats, planning
roadtrip summers years in advance,
marveling at the map lines we
traced with our fingers, touching
nails, biting our lips, and
nervously tonguing the future
caught between our teeth.