Rolling to a Stop

Wind at my sails, we’re rowing in circles fighting the current to catch a break. You needed space; now we’re floating away, throwing out shade as if it could generate the opposite force to pull us back into each other’s orbits. You seemed kind of nervous asking me for a ride: “Drop me off at the dentist you don’t need to go inside.” Do you really not know me, how teasing me so would twist my mind? When I swung open the happy, toothy door, I certainly couldn’t imagine what I would find... a man three times the size of the small plastic chairs, surrounded by laughing children at play -the grumpiest bear- You were mortified. Nothing that I said on the long way back home, that passed by our favorite hotdog place, changed the red in your face. I put on the sundress the one you said that you like. There was no reaction, so I retreated back to the closet. Every time I’d descend the steps, pairing different shoes with different outfits, it seemed really obvious that what wasn’t working was me, myself, and I. Love’s the top of the hill after pedaling hard it’s supposed to be an easy feeling of letting go while the bicycle coasts. But as I grow older, I think maybe it’s the opposite: love is the momentum that slows over time until it rolls to a stop, and we have to pedal again.