As I was leaving
her apartment one afternoon,
she took me by the hand and led me around
her building to the garage.
Showed me the motorbike
underneath a blue tarp there.
All sleek chrome
and mean intentions.
I was surprised.
She didn’t look the type.
She worked in an office and was a
saleswoman of some kind.
Medical equipment, I think.
She seemed so damn proud and really
looked something else
draped over the handlebars ,
smiling that pink lipped smile,
hair hanging down.
I really liked the idea that I was fucking
a girl who rode a motorbike.
But she never rode it once while
we were together. I didn’t know why.
She was one of the kindest
I had at that time.
Better than I deserved or needed.
We found each other in a dark place,
searching for a little bit of light.
Promising we were just using each other
to forget about the one before.
Seven months later, when I left her
for the one who almost killed me,
she cried hysterically and
I was surprised again.
She didn’t look the type.
I saw her once, a few months after,
riding past me on that motorbike.
All sleek chrome and
mean intentions.
She still seemed proud and was
still something else.
I held up my hand
in an apologetic kind of wave.
She gunned the throttle and was lost to me
in the night city traffic.
I liked to tell myself that she didn’t see me,
but I know much better by now.
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