They press against the glass like ghosts in waiting, A blur of eyes and half-smoked expressions, Reflections of a road trip no one planned And no one wants to end.
The one in the middle raises a hand, Palm flat against a world they can’t touch, A silent plea—or maybe a warning. Beside them, sunglasses glint like polished lies, Hiding too much sun and not enough sleep.
The driver, half in focus, grits his teeth, Chewing on a joke nobody will tell, While the rearview mirror holds its secrets, Smudges and streaks carving memories Onto the cracked face of an endless highway.
Outside, the yellow paint flakes, Rust blooms in forgotten corners, And the engine rattles on, A hymn for wanderers with nowhere left to go.
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