The young and the free

The young and the free.

The old road rolls on. Sand and grit gets in my eyes and in my teeth. My wrists get sore. As do the muscles between my shoulders.

Sometimes I’m noticed. Other times, I have to swerve, dodge and flick out of danger.

The old road rolls on. It follows behind me. And it runs out before me, forever further and further. It runs on and I will never be able to catch up. Nor will you.

My back gets wet between my t-shirt and jacket. My gloves are worn and my palms are callous.  My boots are heavy and no one but me knows the pleasure of peeling off my socks as I sit at the edge of my bunk at the end of the long ride.

The cat cries for his supper. He’s heard my engine approaching. The neighbor’s kids run, scream and chase through my yard.

There is no one knocking at my door.

No one to answer my calls.

No one to stare at the moon with.

Their loss.

I am like the night. I wait for the sun to turn its back. In the dusk, I wait to kiss your mouth. I wait for you to lay across my chest. I wait to taste your tongue. Wait to smell your hair in my face. Wait to be face to face with my dark eyed beauty. I wait to find her panties on my floor.

Does she wait for me?


About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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