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.