Blue paint chipped at the handlebars

Blue paint chipped at the handlebars,

rust eating through the spokes,

the bicycle leans like a question

no one answered.

The gate creaks—brief,

like a sigh from next door.

Through slats,

I caught the nod, the glance,

water dribbling slow

from a cracked hose.

No words passed,

just silence that stretches

between fences,

like distance folded thin

but never quite crossed.

Maybe one day

I’ll say hello.

Or maybe not.

Sometimes, a silent greeting

is enough.