[ sunday-driver sonnet ]
Tuesday, October 26, 2010 by Erin Collins
The nostalgic gray of that autumn afternoon
soaked itself around our rain-drenched hearts.
Billie Holiday softly crackled her devoted tune,
singing about everything we loved in parts.
We skidded along route four-forty-three,
silent in our warm reminiscing,
yet your warmth beat quietly next to me,
and I only wished that we were kissing.
You grabbed my hand in a whispering way,
just enough to let me know you were there.
I had to smile softly at our quiet cliché,
of our Sunday-driver love affair.
The rain continued to drip on that tan '98 Buick roof,
but our smiles dripped together with all of our unneeded proof.
