We are absolutely flooring it.
The soles of our bloodstained Converse
almost completely worn down to bare feet,
the heat of the pedal soon searing the skin.
We are underage,
under the influence,
replaced with burnt rubber.
We no longer know where we're headed
but we think we've caught up
with the horizon,
high above the clouds.
The infant in the backseat is still asleep.
As long as we're going faster,
we tell ourselves
with tears or sweat or it doesn't matter
running down our face,
we'll get there.