Decentring

Boy of the year you chant, legs pounding, riding into the headwind. Boy of the year boy of the year boy of the year.

You’re trying to outrun it, the feeling, and the pain-pleasure in your muscles is the best way you know how.

Boy of the year boy of the year boy of the year… in time with the pedals.

His brown eyes, the open-mouthed kiss in the morning, the long leg up in the air in laughter.

And then it’s all the boys of all the years and all the blue-brown-green eyes and all the long-middle-short legs and all the biceps-triceps-shoulders and all the navy-grey-black sheets and all the sweaty pillows and all the sparse 3-in-1 shampoo showers.

And you remember they’re just men.

At the top of the hill with your breath burning you’re back in your body.

Centred.

Photo by Noémie Cauchon on Unsplash