When you think Tim McGraw.
I hope you think of me.
There were a total of probably three songs on your iPod that I liked/could stand. One of them was Tim McGraw’s ‘Live Like You Were Dying’ and I remember nights when you’d drive me home and that’s what I’d pick first. I’d nudge against your arm with the back of my hand and you’d reach over and interlace your fingers with mine and we would sing together, you always a little off key but trying your best and me harmonizing softly. I faced the window and watched the lights, self conscious but comfortable hiding my voice beneath yours, loud and shaky and struggling.
It would be midnight and dark and it was so quiet but for our voices and Tim’s, his song so out of place amongst the hundreds of hard rock and angry metal. A little like me, I guess. Something you liked enough to sync into your world, overwhelmed and surrounded by so many things in your life I couldn’t understand. But you put me there, so I stayed. I wanted to be part of your playlist.
My favourite radio station was preset 4 in your car. I didn’t often interrupt your rock and roll for my country, because I could mostly tune out the worst of it. That preset meant a lot to me though, the button right in the middle. I would smile as you groaned or rolled your eyes at the twang that I’d grown up loving, and you’d let me listen until something you utterly couldn’t stand started playing. I never minded.
I got very comfortable in that passenger seat.
Funny how that’s where I was when you chose to sever the final string.