The girl on the bike is outside my window.
She is there in the night whenever I wake.
Long honeyed hair haloed by the streetlight.
Navy blue hoodie, khaki shorts, her armor.
She is still 17, a spirit of restless, angry furies.
She is the thorn in my mind, prick of regret.
Spirit or her incanted avatar, still I feel shame.
She is still 17, and when I was 17 I left her behind,
I lay in bed sometimes, and see through her eyes.
The soft gold of streetlamps in empty suburban streets.
The hidden groves where stars crown her head.
What the moonlight reveals to the still of heart.
She loved me, Angel, a true companion in the night.
I led her on from a holy moment, kissing on Christmas Eve.
The snow falling in fat flakes, wet and veiling the world.
The moonlight in her hair, such starlight in her eyes.
Soon after I was gone, chasing a succubus that ruined me.
I sleep alone, and when I wake she is there outside.
On her silver and chrome BMX that she rode to Eden.
Bikes to run these streets and make kingdoms of them.
We didn’t have cars but we had the world as ours.
I watch her, want to call her in, but there’s no going back.
No forgiveness or recompense. No wiping it all away.
Those dark eyes remind me of what could have been.
The regret, the shame and guilt, never ending punishment.
Then she rides away, onto the angels and forbidden grace.
Her hood up, her hair tied up underneath it, free from me.
I am still here, having blown every chance, ruining myself.
She is free and adored by heaven, and I cannot follow.