Cycle

I ride my bicycle down the concrete boulevard. Another full moon kisses the darkened heavens and I find a passenger to spend with me the night. Those first few hours, they always boom with a spark. Like a fully charged phone, the screen is always so bright when fresh light catches our gaze.

I throw my heart and full attention into present company! We down too many lattes and espresso shots, the way the caffeine filters itself into my mind, in that early night, I always feel so awake. And her face, that new and unknowing face eager, too eager to know, and my eagerness to divulge, a desire to lay naked my soul.

The night continues, early romance, it proceeds like a Rose Parade. Red and glamorous, feelings swirl like chopped fruit twisted and blended into something that hits that sweet tooth. Music plays somewhere in the background, and her laugh, it is almost just as comforting. The moon treks further across the skies, and slowly a feeling like those seasonal allergies tickles my nose. A burning sensation spreads like embers flickering upon a wooden bridge.

Mixers and fresh brew from the tap! Everyone knows something about this brewhouse or that. I drink with my lady, inebriated we lose ourselves in the moment and each other. Passion cascades out like those fresh waterfalls breaking from the ice, the mountains loosen old dirt and rocks burst as they crash below.

Back on the bicycle, we ride as the moon sits somewhere beyond reach. She says many words into my ears, so many words that she holds close to her heart. Her heart beats with that piston punching power that exists in the certainty that is bound with destinations. I tell her my bicycle is headed for nowhere, I haven’t caught a dawn in years. She nods in agreement, but her silence weighs upon my neck like a chain of silver on something dead’s flesh.

We reach the footsteps of her porch, it’s such a beautiful house. Her eyes gaped open, they search the vacant pupils looking back, only to find an ephemeral flame that flickers and falters as the chilled air lingers in its coldest moments. I cannot give what she wants back. Disappointment falters from her voice, she thought it would be different with her, but I never needed saving–i wish she had seen.

A cycle again, things always run their course. The patterned lines so fine and detailed; my grandmother was so skilled in patchwork. I wonder if she would be impressed with my precision to repetition. The worn cushion beneath my worn bottom, its mold fits me like a glove as my feet turn to peddle. Still I remain in night, I have grown oddly familiar to its lone and quiet comfort.