Through the smeared windshield, He waits—eyes hollow, Half man, half smudge, Caught in the crimson glow of unseen brake lights. A bandaged ghost, A leftover from a story already burned, Paint cracked, blood dried, And still, he holds the wheel. Outside, the city flickers, A carnival collapsing into static, While a plastic tree sways to no rhythm, Pinned like a false idol to the dashboard. His stare locks on yours, Sharp as broken glass— Daring you to see him, Or look away. The world drips red, And yet, here he is— The passenger who never leaves.