The air, superheated, cocoons us and we drive, northwards into the heartland of the desert.
You, black shirted, your smooth denims an intrinsic part of the landscape. You were born into dust.
I, crisp and white, a polarised pair of mirrors for my eyes.
Your hands on the wheel guide us into the belly of time. Intent upon a road with no end.
Sunlight hits chrome, bleeding flashes of forever into the gaze of any who glance upon us.
The roof pulled down, my hat is given up to a vortex of spinning air, whipping tiny tornadoes of grit and long-dead weeds into a dancing frenzy of celebration.
We have no gold on our fingers. Our teeth shall not itch with the sugar of a wedding cake. And we’ll never look back.