December’s frost on my dashboard lights,
I’m still driving past your silent house.
Every streetlight hums the nights
we swore the cold would never bite.
Snowflakes bruise like cigarette burns,
your ghost rides shotgun, never turns.
I sing the chorus we never wrote—
off-key, alone, but still afloat.
If winter steals the last of day,
let this car stereo keep us awake.
I’ll circle blocks of salted black
until the seasons give you back.