We were jet-black sparks on a midnight dash,
cops scribbling our names in white-chalk stars.
I said, “Count to three and forget the past,”
you floored it, laughed, “Baby, we already are.”
Neon bled through the cracked windshield,
promises vapor like cheap champagne.
I kissed the lie that the road could heal,
you held the wheel while I held the pain.
No exit signs on the interstate,
just the echo of tires screaming fate.