Left foot welded to the gas pedal,
we flicker like light,
our eyes sealed through
penetrating rays of sun
our hands trying to match separate vibrations
bare backs pressed into elderly leather

You said right foot drivers fall out of love faster

Pushing ninety in a fifty past semis
while caterwauling guitars dance in my lungs
I swear this is marriage.

For a moment I watch you tap your fingers
to the wrong rhythm,
knuckles blushing as the volume rises.

I tell you your cologne is a forest fire.

At midnight you told me I smelled of wet leaves under black boots.

Near dawn I confessed my love.

Our heavy strings became soft jazz,
speeding reduced to thirty in a forty-five.