baby it's cold outside

Baby it’s cold outside, white as the midterms on my desk, but in my head it’s a summer’s sky, washing the car with a rag anticipating all the places we’ll go in that red muscle headbangin’ V8 burnin’ rubber. The ceiling fan’s doing 360s like that mixtape from ‘82. I hate sweet tea, it’s as bitter as a misnomer but we’ll throw it in, it completes the picture. It’s still being exposed, down in the darkroom of my mind. She’s got the denim cutoffs and he’s got the aviators on his collar, biplane pulling the festival banners through a sky where the fireworks light the stars.

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