I:
The drunk says he can handle bars— but I just
handle handlebars, chasing thoughts downhill,
gripping acceleration on life’s crooked road,
her words tasted like lightning—a storm reigning
in my chest. If the truest lover’s tongue can write
the truth, truth still needs a page— so promise
me this time I won’t crash in the margin.

                        She:
         But darling, I gave you shape; I traced
                                 your edges in circles, crossed out the shadows
                                 of your past. You were a box caged in squares,
         I bent the lines, bisected all of your fears—
                                 in the middle, we met like intersecting skies.

I:
Your kiss felt like a riddle— a puzzle mouthed
in motion, syllables pressed against skin, body
language shelved in cynical libraries. I wanted
to read you without tearing the pages.
   
               She:
        I am neither saint nor sin, just a storm
                             pressed close to your skin. Claustrophobic,
                             yes— but don’t mistake that squeeze for chains.
                            I’m the thunder that reminds you to breathe,
                            the silence that steadies the wheel.

               Together:
     Handlebars shiver, storms bend the ride,
     but still we grip, still we glide— every fall,
                    every bruise, a geometry of love rewritten
                    in motion. Here we are, pedalling into the
                    pulse of rain. Handlebars & Hurricanes...

Skin’s breath whispers along a contour, just toward a mask—
I covered all the fears I wasn’t ready to face. No step. No path.
Only the law of this place: the rules you never choose, or chase
and lovers who kiss, and then debate. That kiss that lingers,
then pretends to take shape; and finally collapses into shame.

But I climbed anyway. Dust settled on the staircase, each rise
slower, heavier—stare at the case; for this trial to court a love
that never stayed.

But the further I climbed, stretching the definition of luck,
I fell down more than once; the air above didn’t fill my lungs,
it just filled my lungs with nothing— it swelled my chest with
pride, hot air expanding this heart, but it was too fragile to hold.

Still— memory warmed me, heated moments in my pockets
I had to tuck. I spent dreams like coins, a childhood innocence
bought out too soon, those poor kids who spent all their tuck.
And hope bursting like a cannon shot, life demanding I give it
my best shot – stretching the definition of luck.

So I climbed, until it all snapped—
I fell, rose, and fell again. Here we are.

“Boyfriend,”
my inner voice laughs, with grins.

“Benefits,”
maybe one-sided — never love that knocks
me off my feet, just more accidents that bruise
my shins.

“Relationships,”
nowadays are so hard to relate.

“Let’s communicate,”
always seems to rhyme with “let’s debate.”

“Let’s go out,”
only works if food’s involved,
that’s the closest thing to a date.

“Our first kiss,”
could be bittersweet on the lips, a downhill
ride when “kiss” rhymes with “hiss.”

“Go touch some grass,”
but how tall has it grown outside?
Love is anything you choose to paint it, though art
can be creative — it’s also unforgiving and wild.

Tuck in your breath under your chin –
cheer up with a chin up; taking all that
wants to hurt you by the chin.

Asking himself, "how did I wind up here,
winding the clock in my back, searching for
something in the past; "those silly laughs,
those silly long hugs that wrapped around
like they belonged.

Both snuggling closely on that party sofa.
“But no, I shouldn’t sleep over,” she whispered.
He was still speaking in volumes, to own the last
control of his remote living.

Those expectant lips hoping for a soft taste
of goodbye. But the other party let down their chin,
chin knocking away his kiss. Dismissing me with
a gesture gentler than words, sharper than silence.

The night ends in tears.

To feel the hum of skin—
a rhythm under flesh,
bleeding ears of melodies
louder than memory.

Flaws fall, resting like
skipped notes on the floor
of silence. I said,
"I’m not a song, not a chorus,
not a chorus, nor the neat refrain
someone can replay.

Yet these songs in my ears—
they take me in, to teach me
how to belong.

I’m not a song, but maybe a lyric—
unfinished, still searching for the
right line. Perhaps in due time, to the
metronome of my heart.

__

believe me
i know my tears—
too wet,
 too sudden

my eyes a washing line
of memories, regrets
hung me up
  to dry

searching for a loan
of love like a borrowed
heart pinned to a shirt

to find the wear and tear
of time; every memory
is washed,
 wrung out in silence
until it dripped from my eyes—

finally, oh finally,
  this man has found
the time to cry.

Something that tastes too sweet stops feeling
like a treat. The tongue grows heavy, and the
stomach twists; as what once melted into joy now
rots at the edges — a nectar that poisons, a kindness
that clings too tight, a love that smothers until you
can’t breathe without choking on its syrup.

Sweetness in excess is a quiet cruelty.
it does not heal; it only hides the sickness
it’s already become. And maybe that’s the trick —
a treat that tricks the tongue, a sweetness so thick
it sticks like honey on the heart, leaving you
starving while pretending to be fed.

Too much **** sugar and even
the heart gets cavities.