The Quiet Man

I trusted you, I wasn’t sure why.

Your hair in my face, wind whipping down the Highway

The mountains came and went on the right

Big cities rose and fell on the left.

I searched the shelves of movies in my brain

To figure out why we fit

So well.

You owned that Highway like an infidel.

I clasped my hands around your waist,

I wanted to go, too.

On a journey with one of you wandering sorts.

The good guys, the rugged, the John Waynes

The Duke of the road,

With tight muscles and eyes of the sea.

The confident type, but quiet.

When you talk, people listen

With longing, and yearning

But you are free,

Yet slightly hidden behind your mask of hair.

Your horse dawned a padded seat

And purred like a cat on the open road.

You live the un-tethered life they dream

You’re young, but wise

Like the paved American road you follow

A painted emblem of the male spirit

Untamed and perhaps hardened by the world you’ve seen

No strinne green stripe patterns or planned out chips,

Responsibilities of the modern man’s world,

Are far from your care.

You’re the Tyler Durden of Fight Club

You’re not perfect, you’re not tamed

You live your life

And I wanted to go, too.

And then your bright eyes went sad,

At things unsaid

Things that would never be.

Your voice lowered and a sadness crackled through.

The day loomed when the road would take you away,

Way out West to the desert and the sea

To adventures far away

and journeys without,

Me.

And the motorcycle hummed on

Her steady tune fought against the wind.

Rain loomed ahead and I snuggled up tight,

My arms squeezed around you

My head on your shoulder

Your sighs heaving through my fingertips

Through the soft cotton of your shirt.

You challenged the road,

Challenged the storm.

And with honest eyes we looked onward,

To our stories still untold

And the motorcycle hummed on.

Motorcycle1

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