She ain't moved in years,
but the tires still dream of open roads.
Sun-faded paint peels like dead skin,
a junkyard queen in exile.
Someone left a cassette in the tape deck,
Black Sabbath’s music trapped in time,
singing about war pigs that we never understood.
I ran my fingers over the cracked leather seat,
and for a second,
I swore I heard the engine whisper:
"We could’ve gone anywhere, kid."
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