This Is Not A Heart

While I’m not one of those girls who revels over “his cute butt,” I couldn’t help but notice yours. I stare at your derriere as you disappear into the horizon. It is so taut.  I always know it’s you, even when you’re not on your bike; your pant leg is still rolled up; it always is. Tight jeans and a fearless attitude to accelerate without the saving grace of breaks is so sexy, especially when you don’t wear a helmet. You weave through streets and hills of SF like it’s a video game, running through red lights, pissing off motor vehicles who only envy you for your disregard for traffic laws. You are living on the edge; take me with you.

You’ve traveled the world on your bicycle, Southeast Asia and Eastern Europe. It is your single most important mode of transportation through life. It is the most elegant manual machine. Your bicycle and its enriching culture are your life. It is part of your identity, what you will become, and how you have evolved.   And even though I can’t share the sentiments, I can respect them. And even though I  can’t relate to the most important thing in your life, we can still go for a bike ride, if you want. Or we can just sit around and drink 40s, make fun of people, and makeout.