If we sped one night in your motor
in ghostly sleeped streets.
Onto a highway, overtaking nightshift drivers.
Their anger would only echoe and
bounce of your back screen window.

Street lights would fade
into roads which passed their trails.
And your senses would dissolve into the music as we rode.
Your fumes polluted the air so much that night,
but I left you forgiven
because it was your last.

The last image in my iris of you flashed,
as my skin was scarcely stabbed.
Your cigar was put out by the force
before your lips could ever taste it again.
It’s last fire was gushed out
by my bottled tears which spilled on the surface.

Then I seen you impaled
your heart oozed out onto the steering wheel,
that had steered us to the end.
Your fingers were the surf that melted into the ocean.
As were your eyes,
enclosed in a forbidden sleep to ensure that
you never awoke and remembered.

But each night I wade with the birds
who sing at the cars looting by
and I inhale their fumes, crying because
they still have miles left unlike you did that night,
when we sped
and you stopped.