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,

Wunderbaum's scent

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.