I folded corners on a transit guide
Ink bleeding where the red line used to ride
Apple branches heavy with the evening frost
Meter stopped but tires never lost
Paper streets don't care for snow or time
Routes I drove are rhythm not a rhyme
Branches scratch the glass where destinations fade
Every fare a shade the night has made
Dashboard cracked where coffee rings remain
Radio plays static through the freezing rain
Orchard rows stand silent in the violet hush
Headlights catch the powder on the broken brush
Passenger seat holds a folded past
Yellowed edges tearing at the crease so fast
Roots go deep where tunnels never reach
Silent as a sermon no one dares preach
Paper streets don't care for snow or time
Routes I drove are rhythm not a rhyme
Branches scratch the glass where destinations fade
Every fare a shade the night has made
Steering wheel remembers every hand
Leather worn to maps I understand
Snow falls soft on routes I'll drive no more
Engine cooling on the orchard floor
Keys turn cold in ignition's final breath
Ink surrenders to the orchard's debt
Branches frame the windshield skeletal and clear
Last fare paid for journeys disappearing here
Paper streets don't care for snow or time
Routes I drove are rhythm not a rhyme
Branches scratch the glass where destinations fade
Every fare a shade the night has made
Paper streets don't care for snow or time
Just the meter's final silent chime
