Forever alive on the back of the bike forever a child in this hot black night.
Bombing through the gorge at 2 in the morning with hands raking up legs and thighs squeezing like a vise, actually more like a vice. Adrenaline wires the blood and hers becomes hot like burning snakes, shaking and melding into the tuck, eventually shooting back over the Fremont Freeway and down into the city like a blazing missile on wheels.
Rocketships ain’t got nothing on bikes painted black.
Universe ain’t got nothing on this woman on the back.