I saw the saddest scene today,
when a boy— now a year older—
abandoned his bicycle because she was older.
Enticed by lust, on his new bike he rode away,
caught up in the moment—he didn’t mean to scold her—
yet no second was spared to look back over his shoulder.
I stopped watering my lawn, eyes where the bike lay,
imagining the loneliness felt when he disowned her,
and I felt emptier than a bike’s seat with no owner.
Even inside my home, on my conscience it weighed
because of their tryst, there was another knower.
“He took her for a ride, and he didn’t even know her.”
In my mind I console her, such idle words I say,
for nobody’s pedaling foot would ever suit her
until that pettler’s foot stopped blocking the suture.
“I was like you recently, so for you I pray,
though, the absence was open and lacked closure;
hopefully, your steel frame employs better composure.
“Nostalgia will make him pine for his yesterday,
pictures’ll frame the story of love lost when he’s older.
In time, loving hands will lift you up,” I told her.