I liked the days you rode your bike places. I liked hearing you from down the road. I always got excited, and, sadly, I still do when I hear one approaching.
reach back. rub your fingers down my leg. I clinch onto the roll around your waist.
fingers creep up and down,
up and down.
look back, to make sure I am still there. I smile, I fucking can't help it. happiness is motorcycle ride days. riding down the roads, sun beaming through the trees.. blinding, invigorating.. I plan my escape. a rush through my whole face, where should I jump? I never got the nerve to do it, but I would now, if I got the chance.
that time you stole colored pencils, one hundred and eighty dollars worth of pencils. karma, hello, it's me. I called and called, but you couldn't answer. your brand new phone was in the backpack that fell off the back of your bike on the way home from work. the pencils. the phone. the backpack. a certain amount of your dignity...gone, lost forever somewhere on chapman hwy.
goddam what I wouldn't give to be riding thru the streets of our neighborhood, waiting on you to cruise by on your new bike. I got on the back with you the first day you got it. you fell off the bike earlier that morning at motorcycle class--but I still got on. I was not scared. I wasn't ever scared with you by my side.
