They call them crotch rockets

The sun beat down on the asphalt and the heat pressed on the city like a lid

People would do crazy things and blame it on the weather now

It was a time of fire and ashes, thirst and sweat

105 in the shade if we were lucky

The sky was cloudless and bore down on me like an all-knowing presence

Judging and relentless

Not even the slightest breeze passed through the dying trees

The cactus and aloe flourished in the never-ending summer of that year

I walked along feeling the sweat pool between my breasts and drip down my back

I saw you far off; your frame getting closer and closer

Cigarette smoke fanning around you like a beard

“Hi,” it was all I could think to say. You were always cooler than me. Standing in your low slung jeans and motocross tee. We jumped on your bike and tore off down the street.

We’ll make our own wind, I thought. Going 70 in a 40, you don’t think about death when your 17. Relishing the hot air across my body and the vibrations of the engine shaking my whole body.

We were everything, yet nothing at all weren’t we? Young and reckless. Brazen in our stupidity. But my God it was the closest I’ve been to flying.

Categories: Addiction, Anxiety, bipolar disorder, Depression, Love, Mania, Mental Health, OCD, Poetry, Self Esteem, self-care, Travel, Wanderlust, Writing

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