New leather seats still smell like your coconut hair oil,
I-95 lights drip like the wax from the candle we left burning.
Ash on the dash forms coastlines—your name a low tide I keep driving through.
Moonroof open, city a second sky; every billboard’s your eyes in neon.
I replay your voicemail just to hear static breathe,
push the pedal through sunrise, chasing the echo of you saying stay.