The engine hums like an overworked jukebox, Kicking out one last tune for the smiling dead. The man grips the wheel like he’s holding onto the punchline, Teeth bright, tux sharper than reality deserves. Beside him, she laughs— Head thrown back, cheeks streaked with the ghost of old lipstick. Her face is a mirror smudged with time, Her laughter the kind that doesn’t ask for permission. The windshield blurs the frostbitten horizon, The trees stripped bare like witnesses afraid to testify. Outside, winter slinks over the world in a heavy coat of regret, But inside the car, there’s warmth— The kind that only comes from pretending the night won’t end. And as the road stretches on like an unfinished promise, You realize this isn’t joy. It’s the shadow of something softer, Worn thin but still alive enough to smile.