Nope, it shall not be the former husband.
Or the turtle I had as a child.
Or the cockatiel named Banana.
Or the awful boss from 24 years past. Why would I?
This time of year, in the youthful days of spring, I miss him the most.
I hear the roar of his brethren and sisterhood in the distance and it gives me chills.
I know he’s out there somewhere, racing in the wind, guiding a free spirit along blacktop trails.
I am jealous, he is no longer mine.
Given up for the sake of something new that never satisfied.
I remember his countenance, his enticing form.
He was a stud of movie star proportions.
George Clooney, but even better.
Shiny, sexy, deep red and black.
Adorned in hard steel and iron, smooth chrome,
and a leather he beckoned me to touch.
My love had a deep, throaty growl and a vibrato that moved the woman in me.
His mighty shield protected me.
His pegged hands held my feet.
I was held softly in the curve of his lap
and by the strength of his back.
This being never talked back, unless he was ill.
He never quit on me, even in the dead of summer’s heat.
He encouraged me when I was in graveled despair.
He whispered gratitude when rescued from a cold winter’s grave.
This love I once held close
in the days of shared sun, wind, rain, cold, heat and bugs.
The days of shared exploration and relaxation.
I wish I could straddle handsome George again
and feel the beat of his iron heart with mine.
Share the ride of ecstasy.
I still miss him.
Miss him bad.