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...