I'm turning the wheel round and round in my hands,
the same manner in which I turn over
the idea of me and you.
the car is cold.
this conversation is cold.
And I can hear you laughing but the sound is cracked and hollow;
or maybe that's just december talking.
I flip the wipers that lazily drag across my windshield, pushing away gray drops of rain
and with that one motion this thought is gone.
it doesn't matter how tightly you held my hand
and it doesn't matter that you kissed me,
because while I could have fallen in love with you once
december's come and gone.