When we drive down 101 in that rusted 1986 Buick Century Coupe of yours, windows opened and misty fog dissolving in the cracks between the seats and our skin, grafitti blocks blurring into vibrant neon blends against ashy gray concrete and sky, will you show me a smile that isn't made of plastic?

When I take comfort in the warm shelter of Sadness, feeling a million miles away from your heart when it's only barricaded behind a burning steel wall a couple feet away, storms of lightning quick outbursts and deafening thunder cries tearing us asunder, will you allow me to return to you? 

When I scream at your artificial expression and inflexibility, aggravated about how you never compromise, exasperated by your unyielding optimism, will you forgive me in your heart?

When we curl up on that scratchy tweed couch you snagged off Craigslist, blanket-cozy and nacho-cheesy, TV tuned out as I fall asleep in your embrace, will you have learned to love me?