The night bleeds in streaks of pink and blue, Reflected in her glassy stare— Eyes like headlights searching for somewhere that isn’t there. She grips the wheel, hands pale as ghosts, The car crawling through shadows thick enough to swallow dreams. Behind her, the neon hums its hollow song, A cracked lullaby for the lost and those who won’t go home. Outside, the world blurs into abstraction— Smears of streetlights, oil-slick skies, And the faint glow of someone else’s tomorrow. But she drives anyway, Through roads painted in regret and rearview whispers, A passenger to her own unraveling.