Car Radio

I sit in my car for hours, just thinking of her.
How she swung up into my big black truck, laughing, asking why I needed suck a huge, loud think.
"Dont call her a thing!" I used to reply, with mock offence,"Its to hold your big ego".
She used to smile, with not only her mouth, but with her eyes. Big, grey, beautiful eyes. Eyes that could light up a country, or bring happiness to the sadest people.
I wish I never saw that smile. I miss her and it hurts that she can still smile, not at me. She will never give me that smile again. I get a sad smile once and a while, but all it does is hurt me more. Her sad, pitying smile reminds me that I will never received the loving, affectionate smile, that used to be mine alone. Now I see her with other, more popular people and wonder how she turned into one of the name brad people, with light makeup and sporty, perfect boyfriends.
I wasn't perfect. She was, but not in the same way as she is now. We would drive for hours and when it got dark, we would sit on the hood, and talk. She used to except her flaws, that's what made her perfect. We excepted each other and the flaws that everyone had, showing or not. Now she tries to hide them, act as if they were not there.
We used to ride to school in my big black truck, laughing at the popular people who think their perfection. Now she is one of them.
She used to dye the tips of her hair, trying to express herself. She used to express herself. Clad in band shirts, combat boots, and brownies, we faced the world together. Then she left my world, and hiding herself behind name brands sometimes I feel as if she haunts me. I see a flash or her true self when she looks almost longingly at our old group, before she buries it deep inside and turns back to her new world.
We used to sit in my truck and talk about the world's problems. Together, we solved them. Now they will never get to be fixed.
When we made up from a fight, she would kiss me on the cheek and turn on the radio, she would flip to the good station, that played Green Day, Peirce the Veil, Twenty One Pilots, and all the good music.
She used to sing along, not afraid of her voice, because she would never let anyone stop her. Now, I walk past her and she seems to chose her words carefully so as to not make anyone angry.
She makes me angry, not at her but at the world. It turns things so pure, into careful copies of the same thing, unless you fight. I never gave up, she stopped fighting.
We were in love in my big black truck, solely ourselves together and at piece, gathering ourselves to face the world, lean on each other for help.
She got tired of standing, so I stand alone for what I love. What she used to love, secretly probably still loves.
We lived our lives in my big, black, loud truck listening to big, loud music her parents would not have approved of.
I sold my truck when I lost her. I never listen to the radio. Her in print is on that music, haunting anyone who listens to it.
The music is the souls that have layed down the fight, speaking their last true thoughts. Our thoughts. Never will I listen to this car radio.

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Hi. I just wrote what ever came in to my head so I hope it's not to bad. Thanks for reading it anyway :)