i want to vault headfirst into the exhaust pipe of america,
grease-slick lungs coughing love songs through a cracked stereo—

windows down, soul peeled back like citrus,
screaming at cornfields and satellites,
begging the sky for a god who understands late-night highways.

your name is written in the vapor of every gas station bathroom mirror.
i whisper it into vending machines & wait for change.

i saw your face in the headlights once,
just a flicker—
a shape between the static of now and never,
caught in the wet blink of a thunderstorm.

there are no brakes in this poem,
only tire marks & cigarette burns on motel bibles,
only jazz-blasted detours & the holy tremble of distance collapsing—

the road is my blood stream
and you’re the pulse i keep chasing.