The windshield cuts her face in half, Smudged with streaks of frost and road dust, As if the night itself is trying to erase her. Her breath clouds the air like whispered regrets, Eyes sharp, locked somewhere past the hood— A horizon she’ll never reach but refuses to lose sight of. The car hums like an engine running on borrowed time, Metal rattling as if pleading for mercy. Inside, silence swells heavy and brittle, The kind that only comes from knowing You’ve driven too far to turn back, But not far enough to be free. Outside, yellow scratches of light claw at the dark, A neon dream bleeding into the rearview. And through the glass, she stares— Frozen and clear— A ghost waiting for her story to catch up.