Through the Window of Your Car

I look through the window of your car 
a week after you went missing, no hope
of seeing you there.

The patience of the hardware store owner
dwindles with the police’s efforts to
organize search parties.

Flowers in the altar around your bumper
stretch into the adjacent spaces,
wilt in the autumn sun.

I come here every day after school
to tell you what you missed, no hope
of hearing your voice. 

The saddest people to lay bouquets,
the same ones who bullied you
seven months ago.

They tell stories of how you joked around,
then repost some hotlines and hashtags on
their Instagram stories.

I only remember their faces
contorted in laughter after
calling you a slur.

The sun sets earlier each day.
I feel its growing shadow, no hope
of seeing you again.