Today’s theme: dink.
It’s not like we would’ve gone any slower even if we could’ve. Your face gets all cold from the rush of it when you’re going down and sometimes you skid a bit and maybe even some leaves slap your face but I wasn’t focused on that this time. My eyes watering a bit, peering out of her slipstream and the warm weight of her hips pushing into my forearms was like the best thing ever until –
it’s not the gravel that’s the thing. Like, it cuts you up and maybe takes a bit of a chunk outta you and you bleed a lot but it gets better. It’s not the gravel that’s the thing, it’s the drop. The sheer fall tumbling down past all them reaching white skeleton trees. That’s the thing. That’s the thing that’ll get you. I haven’t looked down yet to see how she landed. It’s been a while. I keep seeing the image of her sprawled down there somewhere and – I dunno how long exactly, but a while. It’ll be fine. I’m gonna look. She’s gonna be fine. White gum spindle-fingers and a slash of blue sky and. She has to be fine.
I never trusted my flat-clap shoes to hold me
and my scab-sick knees to keep on folding,
accordion-esque, once the blood stopped clotting.
I never had enough hair to hide behind
and my nose was less a button than a squashed pink sore
I was never the ingénue, always the nerd.
And so the nights never called to me, lilac-heavy
bitumen-bit, never whispered in my bones
and saw me leap from the window-ledge
into the sap-dense arms of the night.
I never could fit on the hard steel handlebars
without tipping off sideways
but I can still kiss like a teenager
with overwet lips and too much tongue
and my heart clawing up like a cat in a sack
so come dink me a while on your thighs.