We hit the highway
like it owed us something—
two beers deep,
one taillight out,
her boots on the dash
and my name on her lips
like a dare.
Pickup rattled
with the sound of bad wiring
and worse music.
She tuned the radio
by punching it,
and it worked.
She lit a joint
off the cigarette lighter,
passed it without looking.
Said,
“If we crash,
don’t bother calling my mother.”
The wind carried
her laugh out the window,
along with half a map
and what was left of my caution.
Somewhere near the truck stop
she kissed me so hard
it left ash on my tongue.
She was gone by sunrise
and I’ve been chasing
that burn
ever since.
Ryan Stone
Leave a Reply