We were just kids in the eastside haze,
spray-paint hearts on the overpass blaze.
You’d steal your dad’s car, I’d lie and say “mine,”
racing the river, drunk on summertime.
Radio low, your head on my shoulder,
every streetlight a four-leaf clover.
Told me forever while the engine purred—
now I chase that word through the echoing night,
but the eastside sky still burns our color,
and your laugh keeps leaking out of the cracks in the concrete.