there are only brake lights in front of us,
stretching slowly like a misturned tarot card.

red and red and red.
i could call it the color of lust,
or of your lipstick,
but neither would satisfy.

like the cigarettes you drop half-finished.

and with the metaphor chewed away
we are left with ash and ember.

they flare and burn and fade.
like lust.
like your lipstick. brake lights.

i say, living.
you say, not yet.