in missing person’s cases,
they only ever see the things that get left behind.
never the people.
lowercase letters surrounded by dried petals,
a sorrowful silence filled the amber skies.
desperation crawled
curiosity sinking into the deepest parts of skin.
a rotting bourbon car stood,
peering into wild trees, seemingly waiting.
scarlet hinges, tinted pieces
their eyes searched for signs—
carved hearts on tough barks,
stacked clothes enveloped by dust
a kiss on hoods, handprints on chairs.
the car stood as time passed it by
entangled in wild leaves, covered in poison ivies.
gold-colored cups lay scattered on peeling leather
thorns sprout, webs weaved above broken mirrors
caroline, it says,
marcus it screams.
scratches showed where nails reached,
wet patches smeared by beer bottles on places where they loved.
the car door now laid where they were supposed to be,
young and intoxicated, on sinking pits on muddy roads
maybe caroline loved the woods.
maybe marcus loved her.
maybe the car broke down on a solemn night,
their fingers intertwined, becoming distant as they crossed.
they never did see the bustling streets beyond the frozen waters on the other side
or maybe they’re there right now.
the ones who seek will never know.
the burning flames that flickered through a cold night,
warming and encasing the red until it turned bourbon.
time solidified its color, much like it did its fate.
now, it is just another curious tale,
printed on pages of a newspaper case.
it will speak about the car, the damages—
how there was no body seen on the grounds.
they’d yap about the date, close the case some time
all falling under formal scrutiny of a twisted mind that will only ever see it as a piece of paper
one to pile on the shelves of names they acknowledge but never know.
it’ll be another missing person’s case.
one where they only saw the car that was left behind.
never caroline,
never marcus.
