homesick for high school

he points to the divet, ive been driving in the yard, one tire, over and over, carving up one little spot. i should feel bad and want to stop but it looks so much like you. it feels like you. it feels like home. I want to keep on and then lay in the muddy, bare track and soak you up. in highschool you always parked half in the yard. your mother screeching, drunk from the living room window for you to not. but you always do. parking so you edge out of the winding street into the yard. two passenger tires of your oldsmobile, red and dripping with your personality. various signals of interests and loves hanging from the mirror, stickers covering the back, the seat covers, the smell, the case full of self-made cds. how many hours did we spend here? in our little haven? driving up to the river with your boyfriend in the backseat, us in front conversing as if he didn't exist. in those moments, he didn't. or you recording me telling a story on your new video camera -a wedding gift you received- to remember me by. as if we could forget. as if our souls weren't sewn together and our hearts hadnt grown around each other's like a tree that's merged into the chain link fence like you didn't impact everything you touched forever. you mark the world, all of it, with you. from me to the oldsmobile i know is rotting in a junk yard to the yard which still bore the scar off your tires years after you died. oh he points to a divet in the yard from me driving in the yard. from your spirit taking my wheel and i want to shrug. what's a six inch wide, two foot long stretch of yard to the rememberance? the healing tears of my eyes which can see your perfect straight teeth, and feel the loose thick strands of your hair long, or the scar tissue built up that ran from the base of your big toe to your ankle of your left foot from wearing the wrong kind of shoes, and the stocky blunt fingers grasping the wheel, pointing to a new cd, laughing with me one last time?