Driving, 4 AM

In the dark with your hand
on the wheel,
Absolut empty

I could rest my head in the shade
of your neck. I could lace
your fingers with chipped nails
and forget

light bleeds over trees.
I could pretend your arms
don’t unnerve me
the way they do,
and I don’t mind the nicotine
when we inhale.

We’re flying, sugar
at cyanide dawn
and won’t stop till the crash
smothers sense.