Mary Jane rides shotgun,
her bare feet resting too
comfortably on the
dashboard as she sings
"I have become comfortably
numb" in a voice that is
both endearing and
obnoxious at the
same time.

Windows all the way
down, headlights drift
past like floating, flying
orbs. Out of the corner
of my eye, Mary Jane takes
out and lights two
cigarettes, passing one to
me with a smile.

We pass county lines as
the miles add up; our
destination is not yet
known, even to us, but
it is strangely familiar,
like we've come down this
road before, maybe
in another lifetime.

Mary Jane pulls a lock
of blonde-red hair through
her fingertips, her clear green
eyes hinting at the secrets
of the universe. She is
breathtaking, everything
I desire to be and everything
I lack.

She pauses to exhale the
smoke and, as her voice
rises, she leans back in her
seat. Our cigarettes catch
on the breeze and fall to the
pavement in explosions of
orange in the rearview
mirror, sparkling in the
midnight dark.