a man will cross the world at the smallest hope of love

Beep. Wrrrr. Clickclack. Ssssss. ‘Hello?’
Ssssss. Ssssss. Ssssss. ‘It’s’ – crackle – ‘Geet.’
Crackle. ‘We could’ – buzzzzz. Ssssss – ‘meet.’
Ssssss. Ssssss. ‘If’ – crackle crackle – ‘Joe?’
Umm. ‘I’mchangingtrainsatLeuvenstation
halfpastfiveonTuesdaymorning’bye.’
Clickclack. Beep. The Monday midnight sky
shuddered like a fridge. Our conversation
never matched our love. Too pissed to drive,
I took my bike. The roads were swiped with ice.
It snowed. My front teeth froze. I fell off twice.
‘The next train‘ – Jesus! Push me! – ‘to arrive…‘
We met – still moving. ‘Kiss me!’ That was it.
I biked back home to Mol. The sun shone. Shit.

*****

John Gallas writes: “Romantic Love called upon to go out in the cold on a bike to resurrect its glories, which may never quite have been what they are remembered as. I enjoyed the stop-start challenge of the expression of hesitation, and of producing punctuation of indecision and effort. Perhaps the last word, far from being annoyance, hints at sadness.”

Photo: “OuderAmstel” by Markus Keuter is licensed under CC BY 2.0.