tell her not to mourn, that I loved her more
when I was out on the road – she’ll want –
but I won’t have ascended anywhere, just left.
Rebecca said buying a bike would be the death of me;
pass on that she was right, always was,
that when that truck crushes my skull
she’ll be the last thought I have time to frame
if I’m granted the smallest additional moment.
Fitting, that she should be the one to spark
the synapses before they sever forever,
just before the endless black, longer
than the temporary black that first night when
I only found her lips because she was breathing
so damn heavy underneath the underpass
like she’d just cycled through a cyclone up the hill
that’s destined to come a half-mile before the kill.
That first night, and every subsequent night
was more than I ever deserved, or imagined.
Tell her that, when I made that call from Texas,
it was with only the best of intentions.