Smoke hangs in the air,
A thick, dark scent.
Green Day on the radio
Beer spilled on the leather.
They look frightening,
Howling with laughter
Eyes reflecting headlights.
A heart in fog on the window,
Pressing their mouths together
As up front he pushes harder
On the gas. Stick shift, white knuckles,
New song comes on. I look at the moon
Through the window-wipers crescents.
Someone sings along, badly.
To be young is to understand
That this is all there is.
This is the world.
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