Sometimes I sing, sometimes I do not

On my bicycle. Always I am on my bicycle. Sometimes I sing songs. Sometimes I find what I am singing is a song from a toddler cartoon and then I try and change my song but then it gets only more stuck. I am on my bicycle on the corner of 30th and West Avenue. This is where I see your ghost.

You own a scooter now. It is silver. You still wear a full-face helmet, good for safety. You know, pretty faces and what not. Your pants are still just a little on the short side, just a little too cool. And even though it is 89 degrees outside, you are wearing a full jacket. Kevlar. With the tiny holes for breathing onto your white t-shirt. You always used to wear black t-shirts. And leather. Not Kevlar. And you had a motorcycle. Not a scooter.

On the corner of 30th and West Avenue and I feel my heart do one perfect backflip while riding a bicycle. This is not an easy feat.

Your license reads Illinois. You never told me that you left Bellingham. You never told me you bought a scooter, a kevlar jacket, a place in Chicago. You never told me you left there and took a road trip down to Austin Texas.

It is hot here. It is 89 degrees. I am doing backflips on my bicycle on the corner of 30th and West Avenue. Your ghost is from Illinois. He takes a right. I keep on riding straight. I do not have any songs to sing.

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