Plastic wheels zooming into crowds of blurry figures, Ignoring the reality lurking to entrap them. Thuds and screeches marking their arrival. Freedom trapping their souls. But I love you. They say.
And they're not lying. But you don't love me most. We think with smiles plastered on our faces. I wasn't you first love. But as the smiles their hearts smile brighten, There is no doubt in our minds that they're in love. And let them be in love; Because they always come home. But we wonder, as they sleep, do they dream of us? Or do they think of her? And eventually, they'll be in love with something other than poles and corners, but it want be us. One day, while grinding a pole or turning that corner, They'll meet someone just as in love with the false freedom as they are. But once they find each other, they will no longer have to imagine a life in which they can come and go as they please. With each other, freedom will be their footstool. And life will be of their choosing.