Three hours of riding with a mean speed of 100 does a number on the back and wrist, not to mention the exhilarated brain of a brash, beaten down body.
It allows the mind to wander but far from aimlessly:
Weary of witnessing a beautiful conversation disintegrate into something forgotten, besotted in liquor-sodden dialogues that are best left as texts on telephones.
Leery of commiserating with forbidden women, eviscerating the evening like half-ninjas whose half-life depends on when the sun rises or when I should haul home.
Cannot count the sisters and mothers, whose short nights of solace and depth where I’ve quickly come then left, key in the ignition as I eventually crept, slipped myself across living rooms, down front steps, clothes under my arm while in bliss and oblivion they slept…
Fear of being alone has me weirdly running away from those who ground my currents and clean my circuitry.
Strangely now my awareness has risen to heights that have given new vision and ferocious light to what’s been precious and hidden for a year before my eyes.
This real one. This wayward but driven one, this wild one of wit and a tongue like a gun, this one whose moment stretches sweet like a woman’s wings or vile like a woman’s web…I’ll soon find out which. Witch.
This impending adventure is one I’m relenting to and indentured to, a relationship I’m paying attention and actually tending to…