Backseat Confessions

Brake lights smear like slow fire

on slick pavement soaked in rain.

Inside, the driver’s sigh

cuts through the hum of tired pain.

He speaks low, stories tucked

beneath worn hands and silent stares.

Rearview mirror catches grief

trailing down forgotten stairs.

A bubble of space between us,

a fleeting haven in city’s roar.

Each street a confession

I’ll never quite know more.