I didn't recognize it at first—

I didn't recognize it at first—

the dent was in the same place,

the frame bent just slightly

where I'd never bothered to fix it,

and my neighbor was pedaling past,

casual, like it was just a bike,

like it wasn't the one I gave away

six months ago when I needed

the space more than the guilt,

when I needed to believe I was

someone who could let things go

without keeping track of where

they ended up, and the rust

was newer on the chain, or maybe

I just never noticed it before,

and they didn't look back,

didn't know whose hands

had held those handlebars,

whose legs had pushed those pedals

into whatever shape they took.

I watched it disappear around

the corner of the block.

I'm still watching.