Red Eyed Recall

In the backseat sits a ghost— Not of memory, But of something worse: An inevitability stitched in leather and chrome.

The glow of its eyes isn’t fire, But a cold kind of truth— Burned deep into steel. Words unsaid hover heavy, Too sharp to be spoken, Too late to be heard.

The street outside is smeared like an old painting, A place you swore you’d never return. And yet here you are— Locked in, engine running, Driving nowhere, With a passenger who never blinks.