My heart is a deck with vein blue grip tape and you are the wheels. The trucks get looser and looser and before I know it I am swerving across the white line, dipping into love like it’s a bike lane. I cannot steer with you holding my hands. The sun is a retired drum set beating on my shoulders, your hands land on my hips with the sound of cymbals murmuring. Our melody is silent banging, the sweat and the blood pressure, the only remnants of the music.