Unspoken, but my body scream your name in neon,
wet palms on the dash, 808 knocking like parole violations.
I ain’t pray since the raid, but I’m on my knees in the back seat,
taste of you—iron, mango, sins the pastor never catalogued.
Text says “almost home,” but GPS keeps rerouting to perdition;
every red light a blood moon, every swerve a baptism in 140 proof.
No caption, just the blunt crackle, just the sweat drip,
just the truth too filthy for daylight—so we keep it
unspoken, unbroken, fuck until the cops circle twice
and keep driving, keep driving.