The air hums electric— Neon veins pulse through a dying night. She sits silent, sunglasses hiding storms, A statue carved in the wrong century, While he grips the wheel like a dying promise.
The road stretches ahead, an empty score, Symphonies of noise swallowed by velvet silence. Nothing moves but the clock, Its second hand scraping their skulls, Counting down to nothing.
Reflections smear across the glass, A thousand lives they’ll never meet, And in the rearview, the night rolls back Like a curtain to reveal No audience.
Here they are— Two ghosts wrapped in fabric and gasoline, Heading toward nowhere, Dressed for the occasion.
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