The man sits hunched behind the wheel, Leather jacket creased like an unspoken regret. His head is a silhouette— A dark moon orbiting a dashboard streaked with dirt and faint, old promises. The windshield holds the world at arm’s length, A canvas of grime and pale light, Where smudged reflections twitch and disappear Like bad memories on borrowed film stock. The engine hums its broken lullaby, And the air tastes of metal and cigarettes, Thick enough to choke on if you linger too long. Outside, the silence creeps like a slow thief, Stealing direction, stealing time. The rearview mirror dangles like a confession. Nothing behind, nothing ahead— Just the cold, the endless road, And a man who forgot what he was running from.