Rusted Bicycle

I saw you dream inside of me last night. You were anguished and not running anymore. Your hair lacked luster and your body was still too small.

There were uneasy moments of recognition. Time had trampled your garden. And rusted the bicycle that used to lean against your outer walls.

You turned very slowly to walk away from where I was sitting. Then you stretched the moment and asked: "What did you say?" I had said nothing. Not like before.

Then you asked to see my hands. But I had left them at home.

So I bent down on my kneez and kissed the cheeks of your three beautiful children. Each with a wish of happiness. And a life of principle and so much more.

So this morning I decided to write beyond remorse.


Now I promise myself to remember who I wrote this for.