A Love Song to My Stolen Motorcycle

The sing of her pipes would rise in pitch as we rose higher and higher on mountain rides. It was a throaty alto on cold Alabama mornings. I knew the smell of her. I knew her song. I knew her particular vibrations (depending on her mood) against my ass and my crotch. I can still feel the smooth velvet of her matte black gas tank against my bare abdomen on back-country rides. In the Summertime, in Utah, the tank was so hot it almost burned the hair off my stomach, but I would force myself to lean into her, receiving her heat into me. 
Thanks for all the little kids who had their very first ever motorcycle ride with you and me. Thanks for for all the trips to Yellow Creek, for stopping in meadows of goldenrods to bake in the sun. Thanks for all the nights you got me home safe to Hollywood at 4am after I’d spent the night in the slammer. When I was too poor to buy a clear visor and only had the limousine-tint one! It was like a welder’s helmet! You got me home safe up the groovy 101; that was you! 
Thank you for taking Adam and me to the top of Mulholland, when we were first in love– Adam and me, I mean; you and I had already been in love for a while. Thanks for taking us, two troubled boys in love to look out at night over the twinkly fairy lights of San Fernando Valley. Thanks for that day we rode from Santa Barbara to LA along the PCH. Parts of the road were actually built on top of the seawall so the waves would crash against the road and explode like turquoise lava into the California sky. I made sounds I haven’t heard come out of me since I was a boy.
Thanks for taking me up into the Wasatch Mountains to have a private funeral for Cousin Colter while my family was burying him in Alabama. Thanks for your tears that day. Thanks for rides to rides to Vermont from New York City when leaves on mountainsides looked like fire. Thanks for hobbling home with me to Brooklyn from Manhattan after that Irish Delivery Truck driver took from me a blood-and-flesh offering and from you a side mirror. 
I remember the “tink-tink-tink” of your cooling engine as I leaned against you at the desert 7-Eleven; legs crossed at the ankle; cigarette in one hand, energy drink in the other. I knew what your giddy whisper meant– that I wasn’t the only one who’d enjoyed the 140 mph rocketing across the Mojave we’d just done. The passers-by couldn’t understand what you were saying. They didn’t even know you were talking. When you spoke, you spoke only to me. 
Thank you for the smell inside the helmet and for the tears I shed in there. Thank you for thousands of hours without social media or cell phones. Thank you for showing me who I am and for helping in my demonstration over fear from everyone who dissuaded me. Our love was an act of rebellion! You have been one of the more important relationships in my life!
And now you’ve been taken from me. I didn’t care for you enough. This is only my fault and none of yours. I should have looked after you better. I was a fool. Of course I pray that you’ll be returned to me. That we can be together once again. But if for whatever reason unknown to me now that is never going to be possible, I do hope that your life from here on out is happy without me. Forget me if you must. I will never forget you. I hope that you rocket through pines again and sail the canyons of Manhattan skyscrapers. I hope you blister the desert again and pierce the heaven with your song. And although I can swear on all the beautiful times we had together that this is true, I can only stop at imagining your happiness. Because when I think of you between another man’s legs, it makes me want to rip him to shreds. 
I am a jealous lover. I should have loved you better. 

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