I write a poem out loud and think it might be the best but forget it the moment I get off my bike and reach my destination.
Sounds of traffic below and around, lulls me like my lover’s voice when reading stories to me at night.
There are moments I beg my legs to remain strong enough to push through steepness; they always come back with a counter-offer.
Though her voice haunts the emotions out of me, Sinead O’Connor may not be the best choice for a bike riding mix tape.
Where does all the sweat go? Does it just eek out and dry on my skin?
I want to end this summer with legs like bleached tree trunks.
I want to be a graffiti artist.
When I think I can no longer ride, I turn a slight corner on the Williamsburg Bride and see Lindsay. Then, I realize it is only a stranger impersonating her blond. Alas, I take this as a sign to keep going.
Sometimes I fear that bridges are going to force me off of them, then realize they have no hands.
I have replaced coffee with coconut milk and carrot juice.
I have replaced booze with coffee.
Sometimes I fondle my upper thighs with my hands, while I wait for a traffic light to turn green. I like feeling their stick, their firm, their shake.
What shade of red is my face in this moment and how do the other bike riders make it to work in their work clothes without looking like drowning victims.
I have begun to scout places to quick change from torn jean shorts and tank top to “work attire”; Starbucks is far roomier than the stall at my school.
I worry about the suffocation of my back, pressed firmly to book bag.
I worry that I will never be strong enough to bike the entire way across the Williamsburg Bridge.
This is so exhausting and yet, there is nothing better than driving over the city you are so frequently riding under.