The Red Antique

It all began you see, 

next to that 80's model Jeep. 

For years, we were meek. 

Never did we speak. 

 

Then one day you saw, 

I didn't have it all. 

Maybe you knew, 

but how could you?

 

The red paint glistened,

everyday you listened. 

I can still feel the cold leather, 

the faint smell of smoke. 

 

At least when you loved me, 

it never really broke. 

Now that antique is parked,

in a field of tall grass. 

 

Same with our love, 

which didn't really last. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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