I'm looking forward through the rearview mirror to see your face, but you're already reflecting back on the past few days. It's all behind us as we move down this street, driving fast and presumably carefree: carried softly by your car over a road that's bound to hit a dead end. That's us, a fast-moving sports car (sleek and sexy to the eyes: thrilling to the body with a cool wind blowing back your now messy hair.). It's too easy to be blinded by the tears that this harsh push of wind brings about when you're moving at our speed. We don't see the rising count of the odometer or the depleting gas in our tank. Soon we'll be running on fumes but we don't care: it's how we roll. So stick your key in the ignition and turn me on, I'm yours to take wherever you need me. With my high-beams on, the lines on the pavement pass us by one after the other. It's the only measurement of our love- the days that come and go as we stand side-by-side, awaiting some expected revelation presented as a fork-in-the-road. We don't have a map, but we don't want one, I'd rather die happy in ignorance than to see the truth.
