Highway at 2 a.m.

Headlights carve through fog thick and slow,

a pulse beneath my tires—steady, low.

The cold asphalt hums under wheel and weight,

a rhythm I can’t quite translate.

Under a flickering streetlight,

a raccoon’s fur glints dull, flattened,

twisted silence sprawled across blacktop—

death’s quiet punctuation on the road.

I keep driving, breath tight,

toward a place that doesn’t care

if I arrive at all,

only the road and me left awake.