Two blurry lights stretch far away,

They slide from focus, as I lay.

My forehead hard against the glass,

While silently counting hours past.

The radio dial is still and cold,

A false calm hangs like fool's gold.

You drive with little concentration,

As though you expel expectation.

I dare not speak to break at last,

An untouched frozen pond of glass.

Below us only darkness lies,

A pool of asphalt rushing by.

The surface serves as instant friction,

Behind us neither fact nor fiction.

Stars once dim have grown so bright,

Revealing dusk has turned to night.