Rough days, neon saints all burn out slow,
cheap coffee steams on the dash,
I’m counting white lines like rosary beads,
while yesterday keeps calling collect.
Streetlights flicker Morse regrets—
spelling her name on my windshield in dust.
I grip the wheel till vinyl peels,
singing off-key to a God I can’t trust.
Rough days, but the sunrise still owes me one more mile.