There is something so exhilarating about the sound of gears clicking.
Tick... click... tick...
We sit here, together, in silence.
The scorching sun beats down on our skin, leering into our faces.
You, in your ripped jean shorts and faded tank top.
Me, in my pleated pink skirt.
Your blonde wavy hair bounces behind us;
With each tick of the chains, it gives a little dance.
I sweep my black curly hair into a tight bun,
I certainly don’t need a mess of hair whipping my face on the way down.
You clench the black bar; your body tense.
My hands tap the side of the cart; impatiently waiting to be at the top.
Tick... click... tick...
We are so opposite, yet, so similar.
For we both love the thrill.
The thrill
of the wind blowing on our faces.
The thrill


of screaming until our voices are hoarse.
The thrill


of our stomachs being lifted into the air as we descend.
But, in one minute and thirty seconds,
The thrill will be over.