August 16, 2009

The sand on your road is restless. It is windy out, and my watch says 4:30 A.M. The creaking bicycle I sit on stirs, shivers. There is candlelight flickering through the window, and when I close my eyes I still see light. The night sky is fading into the sun, a dripping watercolor painting on my fingertips.

I called you, I stood up off of my bicycle like an animal split in two, and I felt my knuckles softly hit your door. I hear you singing still as I ride miles away, wheels pressing onto the cool sand, too far away to be yours.

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