writer's craft

he drove me home at 3am on my 18th birthday;
home being my childhood house in orangeville,
which i hadn't seen in nine years.
we went in his van,
and stopped six times at tim horton's,
and once in the middle of nowhere.
coffee and a smoke, coffee and a smoke.
we sang along to cheery songs about death,
and didn't cry, for once.
he was texting her that night too,
but i won't ask for too much.
after all,
when i see his straight teeth through his crooked smile,
and his low voice tells me he misses me too,
i love and hate it all the same way.