The windshield fractures a cold reflection, Punk anthems buried in the engine’s growl. Smoke curls from a chapped mouth, While frost paints the silence between them. Graffiti scars the leather seats, A neon whisper of forgotten names. Knuckles grip the wheel like a vow— No maps, no roads, just asphalt and fumes. Breath clouds the cracked glass, Their laughter—sharp, hollow, alive. Tires scream against winter’s grip, As they vanish into the smudged grey.