Static Laughter

They sit like kings in a kingdom of ruin, Suits red as arterial dreams, Laughter spilling out like blood from a wound— Wet, relentless, unearned.

The road has given up, A gray smear of nothingness. Streetlights flicker, half-dead witnesses, Casting halos on cracked glass and striped fabric, While the world outside chokes on its silence.

Their eyes— One wild with electric frenzy, The other carved from dark mirth— Burn through the windshield, Begging the universe to blink first.

Is it a victory or a joke? Does it matter?

The night stretches out ahead, Long as a confession they'll never make, And in their laughter, you hear it— The sound of something coming undone, Not all at once, But slowly, beautifully, like velvet pulling apart at the seams.