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If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this short(ish) story from the beginning (link here). The whole thing is supposed to be experienced in one sitting, but I didn’t want to go radio silent for about a month (or two).

---

Regarding the last echoes of my teenage years,
Followed by the dawn of adulthood,
I remember feeling encased in a plastic bubble
Whose smoky-gray membrane dimmed the world
And muffled every sound and scent.
Inside, the air was stripped of oxygen,
Leaving me gasping for whispers of life.

The warmth in my chest had disappeared,
Replaced with a yawning, frigid void
That threatened to collapse my ribcage.
A squirming, screeching anguish,
Like myriad critters drowning
In a pool of poison,
Seared through my innards,
Corroding every fiber that once bound me,
Exposing my raw nerves to the wind.

During that years-long nightmare,
I was trudging through the indifferent city
When I turned a corner on Cipriano Larrañaga Street.
Shambling down that narrow, grimy sidewalk
Lined with multicolored trash bins,
Your father, a relic of another life, headed my way.

The imaginary sutures that struggled
To keep my copious gashes closed
Unraveled at once.
The rush of blood to my head
Rendered the world’s clamor mute,
And I stood paralyzed.

I pictured myself lunging at your father
And wrapping my hands around his neck.
The more he wheezed and spluttered,
The more his eyes bulged,
The tighter my grip would squeeze,
Making the tendons in his neck creak.
As his face shifted from crimson to purple,
His last light would be spent
Staring into my wrath-contorted face.

I had known your father as a volatile man
Who dared to threaten you, his own daughter,
Before the eyes of the boyfriend who loved her;
He knew that, if pushed, he could overpower me.
Yet, that lingering image of him
Contrasted with his present, slumped self:
The deep wrinkles carved into his features
Spoke of decades aged prematurely;
His mouth hung slack in a silent gasp;
His hair, gone gray, was disheveled,
With strands splayed erratically;
Dark circles ringed his vacant eyes;
A once-white T-shirt, sweat-soiled,
Clung to a protruding belly.

Your father lumbered toward me
As if he failed to register my presence.
A sour stench of filthy skin and clothes
Emanated from him like a black flame.

I stepped aside, letting your old man pass.
His footfalls and ragged breath faded away.
My rage had melted into tears;
He already looked like he’d been killed.

About a week after you died,
My mother, turned activist overnight,
Drove me to the spot of the accident:
Grassy, uneven terrain that sloped up
From a curve of the GI-636 highway.
A succession of vehicles whooshed by,
And the wind tugged at the placard
That my mother held in her intimate protest.
Before a television crew, she ranted
About the treacherous curve
That had reaped many young lives.

As the reporter nodded, the camera captured
The stillness of the roadside memorial,
Adorned with bouquets of wildflowers and a cross
Beside which rested a framed photograph
From a birthday celebrated in our home:
Your ponytailed self seated at the kitchen table,
Your chocolate eyes aglow with a joie de vivre,
And you showing off those crooked front teeth
As if they would never burn up in a furnace
And their fragments be ground to ash.

The cameraman aimed at the metal guardrail,
Its silver gleam patinated by rain and wind,
That your Aprilia had crumpled.
Then he panned over to the spot of the slope
Where your eyes had gone dull and lifeless,
Where your blood had drenched the grass
And seeped into the earth.

My mother kept me high on sedatives
That sapped the marrow from my bones;
Otherwise, if my lungs still drew breath,
I would have knelt before that spot
Packed with your blood,
And with my hands, I would have dug a hole
To crawl into and disappear.

I know you, Izar:
You were anguished,
And speeding in the rain.

That night in nineteen ninety-nine,
After you left me at my doorstep,
You told me you would head home.
Why did you end up in a highway?
Where were you going, Izar?
Did you even know?

My mother crowdfunded a memorial stone
To commemorate you, who had dreamed
Of becoming a motocross pro.
They installed it in a wooded lane,
Surrounded by the whisper of leaves.
Whether my mother bothered out of guilt,
Seeking the spotlight in a play of mourning,
Or to bridge the chasm between me and her,
I couldn’t say.
I guess it doesn’t matter.

Nightly, you visited me in dreams
To gift me the warmth of your presence
Along with your wild laughter.
I woke up reaching for you,
Only to clutch at emptiness.
A respite from the agony,
As my mind forgot for a moment,
Then I remembered anew.

In a numb, sunless haze,
I sleepwalked as if summoned
To locations we had frequented.
I stood unsteadily at a park near my home
While blurred people passed by,
My gaze fixed on the traffic,
Anticipating the sight of a Telepizza scooter,
Of you clad in the scarlet cap and polo shirt.

At the ecological park of Plaiaundi,
In the twilight glow of the setting sun,
I followed a tapering dirt path
Covered with needles, leaves, and twigs,
Ending at the staircase of an observation post.
I was clambering the weathered steps
When I looked up and there you were,
Leaning on the wooden balustrade,
Your caramel waves tossed by the breeze,
And you smiling down as if welcoming me.

At Aingura Park, near the marina of Hondarribia,
The humid air of an overcast day filled my lungs.
On the lush-green grass, I searched for our spot
Where we had lain to stare at the stars.
Beyond a row of maritime pine trees,
Absent fishermen’s rods leaned against
The rocky barricade of the shoreline barrier.
A lone man cast a line into the slate-gray sea.

You had always seemed to me
Too large for the world to contain,
But now, if I let go of your memory,
I would never find you again.

With each passing month, going outside
Felt more like venturing into a foreign country
Where I couldn’t make myself understood.
I languished for hours in the dark,
Lying in bed, covered up to my forehead.
Through headphones, I listened to the tapes
In which your middle-schooler self
Played the energetic radio host,
Riffing on manga series we enjoyed
And video games we tried to beat,
Pausing only to munch on snacks.
Your bubbly giggles echoed through the years
While tears streamed down my temples.

Who were these carefree souls
That dared to laugh and joke around
As if taunting the universe that waited
To punish them for their joy and hope?

On my cluttered desk, papers lay blank
Beside pencils and pens, markers and erasers.
Drawing and writing had come naturally to me,
Like a baby grasping for their mother’s breast.
Why draw? Why concoct stories?
What were my dreams worth
If you wouldn’t see them realized?

I felt it as achingly as a knife stuck in my eye:
I wouldn’t get over you.
In this life, if you’re lucky,
You meet one precious person.
I had found mine. I had lost her.
I was condemned to continue
Long after my Izar disappeared,
While the world spun on.

Where would I go after you?

Without a say, I merged with the voiceless
That had been rendered unfit for society.
How many people out there,
From the profoundly autistic
To those whose hearts shattered irreparably,
Vanish from the lives of friends and acquaintances,
Sequestered away in some psychiatric hospital,
Or the rooms of their childhood homes?
Breath by breath, they would wear away,
And fade further from the memories
Of even those who had promised to remember.
Decades on, a once-close friend
Might stumble upon that person’s obituary
And wonder what untold stories had been lost.

One afternoon, my parents had left
To wherever they went,
And I had armored myself in human garb
To shuffle through the post-apocalypse,
But when I grabbed the front door handle,
A revulsion shook my spine;
I refused to withstand again the glare
Of that traitorous sun.

Instead, I retreated to my bedroom,
To the sanctuary of its walls
And a door locked shut
That protected and isolated me
From a meaningless world.

A day became two,
Became a week,
A month,
A year.

The sounds and sights of that alien world,
A film projected onto the wall of a cave,
Tormented me through the windowpanes:
Beams of sunlight slicing up the shadows,
The muffled laughter of children,
A couple strolling hand-in-hand.

In the gloom inside, a shrine to the dead,
I worshipped the mementos of our shared past:
Your EVA figurines,
The comic strips I drew for you,
Your motorcycle gloves,
Your handwritten letters,
Mixtapes of your favorite songs.
I spoke softly to your photographs,
Like a penitent monk conferring
With the images of his saints.
I befriended spiders.
I stashed piss bottles under the bed.

In one hand, I held that picture of you
Astride your Aprilia Red Rose at night,
Your luminous face resting on your palm,
Your chocolate eyes crinkled in a grin.
On that photograph’s flip side,
A note in your chicken-scratch read,
“To my beloved artist,
Please sign the comic strip I enclosed,
To sell at some fan convention
Once you’ve become famous!
Love forever, Izar Lizarraga.”

In my other hand, I held a knife,
Its sharp tip pressing against my carotid.
I wasn’t strong enough to kill myself,
So I would stay within those four walls
Through every sunrise and sunset,
Through the ages of this world,
Forgotten and gathering dust,
Waiting patiently for my self to rot.

---

• Previous part (4)
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Author’s note: the songs for today are “Lonesome Town” by Ricky Nelson, “The End of the World” by Skeeter Davis, and “The Scientist” by Coldplay.

If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.

As I was rereading the fourth part of my free verse poem Love of My Life, I thought I could improve and tighten the last five verses, so I did, because I’m anal-retentive like that. If you’re one of the two people who are enjoying this story, you may want to reread at least those verses. Link here.

Also, here’s a motocross race, for reasons:

• Previous part (3)
• Next part (5)

If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this short(ish) story from the beginning (link here). The whole thing is supposed to be experienced in one sitting, but I didn’t want to go radio silent for about a month (or two).

---

The twenty-seventh of April.
With each year’s circle back to the beginning,
I accumulate a fresh pile of website designs,
Churned out at the office in exchange for pay,
And my kids hit every milestone
That most children reach at the same age.
But when the twenty-seventh of April approaches,
In my dreams, and whenever I close my eyes,
I’m yanked to that date in nineteen ninety-nine,
Like a ghost doomed to start again
From the spot where his heart gave up.

Dinner had settled in my stomach.
I was yawning on my way to the bathroom
When the landline rang.
My father’s footsteps padded to the entryway.
Seconds after the ringing ceased,
He forced his voice into a strained assertiveness,
Like a woodland critter facing a wolf,
Telling the caller that she shouldn’t have called.

As I clenched my jaw, I crept to the entryway.
The lamp’s glow glared on my father’s bald crown.
His stooped figure gesticulated
While he peered hesitantly at his wife,
Who, arms crossed, presented her back to me.
Inside the receiver, your voice sounded trapped,
Demanding to be freed.

Trying to talk over you, my father stammered,
And that disgusted my mother enough
To seize the phone
And command you to stop bothering her son.

How could anyone direct such a barbed tone
Toward you, Izar, my personal sun?
This meddling crone threatened
To sever your light from my life.

I barked an indignant “Hey!”
That made my parents whirl around
As if I had lobbed a stone.
I ordered my mother to give me the fucking phone.
When she complained about my language,
I snatched the receiver from her grasp.

Your voice was a tinny, thin string
Coated with tears.
“I need to see you. My father…”
“Where, Izar? Where are we meeting?”
“I’m calling from the nearest payphone.
I’ll park by the candy shop.”

After I hung up, I spun to confront my parents
And seethed through gritted teeth,
Punctuating my words with a jabbing finger.
“Izar didn’t call you, nor you.
She wanted to speak with me.
Don’t ever, and I mean ever,
Interfere with our relationship again.”

I stomped off to my bedroom,
Where I scrambled into some clothes,
My fingers trembling as I buttoned and zipped.
I had expected my mother to pursue me
While threatening to ground me for a month,
But I only heard my heart’s wild gallop.

My mother stood stiffly by the front door,
Her eyes welling up with tears.
She frowned like she resented life
For insisting on abusing her.

“Don’t you dare let that girl give you a ride,”
She said as I wrestled into my rain jacket.
I grabbed my keys and flung the door open.
My mother’s last words echoed through me.
“Are you going to throw away your life like her?”

That night itself, a cloak of frigid air,
Still makes me shiver.
The streetlights lit streaking raindrops
That resembled scratches on film.
The intermittent ripples on pooled water
Reminded me of piranhas at feeding time.
Down the gutters, rainwater meandered,
Churning like a serpent with reflective skin.

Sheets of rain cascaded around
A solitary figure flanked by bollards.
Raindrops drummed against your helmet,
Its visor a slab of opaque.
You were wearing your sleek red jacket,
Now adorned with a glossy layer of water.
Your soaked jeans clung to your legs.
In your gloved hand, you held my half-helmet.

When you noticed my presence,
You hurried to me,
Splashing puddles in the one-lane road,
And engulfed me with your wet embrace.

I had wrapped my arms around your waist,
I had closed my eyes as if waiting to slip into dreams.
Your Aprilia Red Rose rumbled between my legs.
The cold rain lashed my eyelids, cheeks, and lips
Through the gap in my half-helmet,
While the whipping wind threaded through
Every crevice of my clothes.

You always drove me away
From the bitter prison where I grew up.
The grip around my chest eased,
And at last I could breathe.
I imagined we were drifting through space
In a ramshackle starship,
Away from all constraints, from every society
Other than our society of two.

We were riding on a rain-drenched freeway,
Immersed in the growling of your Aprilia’s engine
Amid the rain’s patter, cars’ whooshing,
And swish-swash of wiper blades.
The scarlet smudges of taillights
Glided across the slick tarmac
As if I were peering into an ethereal world
Through tinted and warped glass.

I wished to end up stuck in a loop of then,
Plunging through the enveloping darkness
While smears of streetlight flew by.
I longed to never again see another face,
Nor be anywhere else,
Nor do or know anything else
But your presence pressed against mine.

In my embrace, your body trembled;
You were crying, or at least on the verge,
And you channeled that anguish
Igniting your steel beast’s roar
With a wrench of the throttle.
Jettison your worries to the wind,
Let speed drown out the pain,
And in this state of euphoric nothing,
Feel yourself drift into eternity.

The wind buffeted our clothes
As the downpour assaulted us
Like a barrage of liquid arrows.
I pictured the bike flipping,
You thrown and rolling,
Your helmet shattered,
Your skull crushed.
I raised my voice over the cacophony
To plead with you to slow down.

Where were we? On our left,
A navigable stretch of the Bidasoa River
Separated us from the city of Hendaye.
The haloes of streetlights revealed
Terracotta-roofed white dwellings.
“Where are we going, Izar?”
You said you didn’t know.

Maybe for me, you pulled up
By an open, desolate sports court
With faded lines,
Encroached by patches of grass.
At each narrow edge of the pitch
Stood a netless goal.

You pulled me by the hand
Toward a storage or utility building
Close to a rusted basketball hoop,
Seeking shelter from the rain
Under the eaves of the gable roof.
We plopped down beside each other
On the gritty, wet, cold asphalt.
You hugged your knees,
I draped an arm around your back.

Our breaths fogged in the night air.
Rainwater streamed from the roof.
An unseen metal fence kept clinking.
Built on a hillside past the sports court,
Rural-style, two-story houses
Stood silhouetted against the dark.
Their windows, like low-burning embers,
Glowed through the swaying foliage of oaks
While their branches rustled and creaked.

Did that place even exist?
Like a couple of astral travelers,
Maybe you and I rode out of reality,
Slipped into some liminal space.
I have never dared
To return there.

You slowly rose, turned toward me,
And lifted off your helmet.
Your face emerged, flushed, tear-streaked,
Strands sticking to your forehead.
A stark, mottled mark contrasted
The light-beige of your cheek.
Within the bruise, that bore the imprint of fingers,
Red pinpoints indicated ruptured capillaries.

I clenched my fists. The tendons creaked.
I ached to kick down the door of your house,
And bash in the teeth of that bastard
Who must have felt so mighty and untouchable
While hurting you, his own daughter.
But only through blind rage
Would I have overpowered your father,
And afterwards, how would you return home?

To calm myself down,
I took a deep, turbulent breath
Of that night’s cold, damp air.
Then, with my trembling fingers,
I pulled off my half-helmet.

“What was it this time?” I asked, my voice hollow.
You recounted that after returning home from training,
As you were cleaning the mud off your motocross bike,
Your father, on his way home, frowned at you,
Then waited at the apartment, ready to argue.
He refused to let you waste your life, as he put it,
Chasing a mirage that would never materialize,
So you would need to look into trade schools.
You matched his tone with equal fire.
After he slapped you hard,
He stood there shocked, his hand still raised.
You stormed off into the pouring rain,
And hopped on your Aprilia.

You recognized the frustration in his eyes,
And that bothered you the most.
The ever-present itch for perpetual motion
Coursed through your shared blood,
But instead of striving for a life akin to his urges,
He settled for that of a fish caught in a bucket,
Seated at a desk for eight hours a day,
Shuffling papers and answering calls,
Enduring a meaningless routine
That would drive any decent soul insane.
When the pressure mounted to an extent
That numbing it with booze failed,
Rather than delve within for elusive answers,
He cast his gaze outward for targets
To blame, to accuse, to hold responsible
For his damnable existence.

“Our parents doomed us
With their own demons.
Unless we break free,
We’ll end up the same.”

You stepped into the downpour
And paced up to the basketball hoop.
While the wind tugged at your ponytail,
You scratched flakes of paint off the pole,
Revealing the metallic core underneath.

Raindrops shone on your skin,
Linked together in a twinkling lace,
And droplets tipped off
The limp, wet waves of your hair,
When you spoke the words I had dreaded
As if you had come with a deadline:
You were set to leave the city.
My chest clenched in a visceral ache.

“Let’s go far, far away from Irún,
Where nobody will find us,
Where we will be left alone
To live and love freely.

We don’t need to follow their map, you know?
Did you ever want to become a doctor, an engineer?
Do you think we should waste our lives
Obediently conforming to our parents’ wishes?
You were born to create stories,
And I was born to ride.”

You had decided to sell your beloved Aprilia Red Rose,
And spend the money, along with your savings,
To travel on your bright-yellow Suzuki RM125.
You wanted to hit the trails at Sierra de las Nieves,
Near Marbella, whose tourism industry offered odd jobs.
You hoped to compete in the Ponts track, near Lleida.
At Jeréz de la Frontera, with its own world-famous track,
You wished to meet other riders, maybe find a mentor.
If we yearned for a secluded life,
We could buy a rundown cottage at Sierra Nevada,
Itself excellent training grounds for motocross.

Your dreamy smile dropped,
Tinged with a sudden sadness.
“I’m sorry for mom,
But one day she’ll understand.”

I pictured myself furtively stuffing
A travel backpack with necessary items,
Expecting to rough it in the wild:
Food, water, flashlights, sleeping bags,
First aid kits, maps, rain gear, spare clothes,
My sketchbook, a ream of paper, and pencils.
You and I would sneak out at night,
Leaving goodbye letters behind.

Your Suzuki would rumble through Spain
Under the weight of two reckless people,
Winding over hills and through vales,
Over bridges and through tunnels,
Past vineyards, olive groves, and orchards,
The sun’s warmth settled on our shoulders.

In a secluded forest clearing veiled by wildflowers,
We would unfold our sleeping bags over the grass
And lie embraced under the stars.
We would stroll along a rocky beach
Wearing nothing but our underwear.
In the dappled shade of an olive tree,
We would sip sangria and make love.
Seated beside a crackling campfire, hunched over,
I would sketch scenes from our adventures.

You and I would share an apartment,
A poky, one-room affair
With dusty windows and screeching plumbing.
We would cover the floor in clothes,
Pizza boxes, and video games.
We would cook noodles with seasoning packets,
Wash our underwear in the sink,
And listen to music while dancing haphazardly,
Bumping into each other and laughing.

Every memory of our love
Would hang suspended in time,
To glitter like dust particles
Spinning and spinning in the light.

My ribcage had become a butterfly trap;
Its captive fluttered, trying to escape.
You were asking me to choose
Between you and a predictable future.
Could I really leave my family,
And every expectation thrust upon me,
To throw myself into the wild with you?

On my own, would I have ever known adventure?
What if I missed the train? What if I lost my way?
What if I failed to locate a shelter before the sun vanished?
How could anyone dare to camp in the wilderness,
Engulfed by a nightmare-laden darkness?
Beyond the walls of my parents’ home,
The world awaited patiently to hurt me,
And behind every smile hid a monster.

An umbilical cord, ropelike, gnarled,
Pulsated as it fed into my abdomen.
Despite the wrenching pain,
I yanked and twisted the cord
Until it ruptured with a wet snap.
The torn end spewed a torrent
Of viscous, tar-black sludge
That befouled and corroded the ground.

Let us travel to the farthest corners of Spain,
Let us witness the edge of this world.
As long as you were with me,
I was home.

When I pushed to my feet, I met a pleading gaze:
Your chocolate eyes shimmered with tears.
Raindrops trickled down your cheeks,
And dripped from your nose and chin.
In a faltering voice, you told me to consider your plan;
You could wait the two months left until I graduated.
“For now, in this moment, please, will you hold me?”

I held your shivering form,
I inhaled the ozone of your soaked hair,
While the rain pelted down,
While your chest heaved against mine.

If making such a vow
Still means anything,
Let me promise this, Izar:
I would have chosen you.

One day I would find myself squeezed into a seat
Overlooking a dust-churned motocross track
Where a throng of racers garbed in colorful jerseys,
Helmeted like avant-garde gladiators,
Jostled and swerved for control.
Dirt bike after dirt bike, sunlit mirages, raced by,
Their frames adorned with sponsorship decals,
Their tires flinging up sprays of dirt.

The bikes would bellow and scream
Like barbarians taunting each other
As their riders crested bumps,
Skidded around tight turns,
And launched off ramps.
I would hear the thud and crunch
Of bikes landing after a jump,
And the rapid-fire crackle of debris
Striking the underbelly of the beasts.
A fine cloud of dust would hang
In that dry, sun-scorched air,
Mixed with the acrid tang of motor oil
And the earthy scent of disturbed soil.

Once again, you raced into sight:
Izar Lizarraga, renowned motocross pro,
Astride your bright-yellow beast,
Its wheels ripping through the track.

Approaching a ramp, you gunned up the Suzuki
And leaned forward, bracing for a jump.
At the peak, your bike pounced like a predator,
Soaring through the air.

A moment of suspended flight,
A full-body shot captured in posters:
The tire treads of your Suzuki packed with earth;
Your gloved hands gripping the handlebars;
And behind your visor, your chocolate eyes,
Speed-spellbound,
Fixed on the distant finish line.

---

Author’s note: the songs for today are “Ladies and Gentlemen We’re Floating in Space” by Spiritualized, and “Lau Teilatu” by Itoiz.

If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.

• Previous part (2)
• Next part (4)

If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this short(ish) story from the beginning (link here). The whole thing is supposed to be experienced in one sitting, but I didn’t want to go radio silent for about a month.

---

My mind often revisits, perhaps as punishment,
My mother’s face dominated by a scowl
That deepened the creases long etched
Through years of worry and resentment.
Her lips were pursed as if holding herself
From unleashing a hellish rebuke,
And her eyes, intense and narrowed,
Assured that wherever her gaze landed,
She would find some detail to fault.

As damning evidence,
My mother showed a tied-up condom:
A limp and deflated rubbery sheath,
Its head filled with creamy-yellow fluid.

My mother ordered me to explain this gift
I had left for her to find while cleaning my room.
I wanted to shake my head and spit out bitterly,
“Sure, Mother. After my girlfriend and I made love,
I tossed the condom aside and forgot about it
To screw with your persecution complex,
To express contempt for your brand of parenthood,
Your desire to control every facet of my life,
To mold me into the perfect son you wish me to be.”

I apologized, but suggested she could appreciate
That my girlfriend and I use protection.
My mother scrunched up her nose
Like she had stumbled upon a pile of dung.

Her voice rose in pitch and volume as she said
I shouldn’t be having sex with “that girl,”
Whom she had welcomed into our home for years.
“No wonder your grades are slipping
If you focus on pursuing vices instead of studying.
Think of your future, think of your career!”

She had called your mother to inform her
Of the grievous sin we were committing,
But your mother already knew
Because she had heard us going at it.

“How could that girl throw away her potential,
Squander the sacrifices made by her parents?
Her mother gave birth to her, nursed her,
Stood at her crib every morning,
And hoped that she would grow into a good girl,
Only for her child to become a disgrace.”

My mother referred to you as a bad influence,
A rotten soul going nowhere fast,
A walking advertisement of aimlessness
Who would end up pregnant and homeless.
She forbid me from bringing you to the house,
And added that if I were mature enough,
I’d know that I should stay away from you.

Had I foreseen such a confrontation,
I would have imagined myself yelling,
But I saw my mother for the first time:
An aging woman who followed a script,
Who needed to straighten every life’s crooked lines,
Who met my father and shortly after got hitched
Because that’s what people are supposed to do,
And ever since, they argued as often
As loving couples exchange smiles.
My parents, my life’s givers, lived trapped inside
Something too awful and intractable to escape.

Still simmering from the confrontation,
I accompanied you and your mother
To a bike dealership in Astigarraga
That smelled of leather and new rubber.
The polished frames of motocross bikes,
In screaming colors like red, blue, and yellow,
Gleamed in a line-up,
Resembling museum exhibits.
Those knobs in the bikes’ tire treads
Would dig into the dirt for maximum grip.

You fell in love with a Suzuki RM125,
Its bodywork clad in bright yellow,
Its mechanical heart laid bare
And ready to be flecked with dirt,
Its front suspension forks
Like the limbs of a seasoned athlete.
The high-mounted guard would prevent
Mud from splattering your lovely face.

At the counter, when time came to pay
And your mother pulled out her credit card,
You grinned, clasped your hands,
Let out a squeal of delight,
And bounced on your tiptoes.

You had dreaded surrendering your Aprilia
To fill the void in your hard-earned savings,
And found yourself marveling at your luck
When your mother offered to chip in.

Bless that woman, bless her heart
That beat with love for you, her little star.
I will be forever grateful
She kept opening the door of her home
Despite knowing how you and I spent our time
Whenever the adults left us alone.

Her words echo in my mind,
As clear as if spoken yesterday:
“I’ve never seen Izar this serious about anything,
And even if I tried to stop her, I know I can’t,
Because she’d just pack up and leave.
She was always the wild one:
Uncaring for the rules,
Unafraid to do whatever she wanted.
Nobody had to teach her how to be free.”

For encouraging a “ridiculous dream,”
As your father called it,
Your mother’s support opened a rift,
And now they argued more often than not,
As most couples are destined to do.

During my lunch break, you and I met
At the restaurant that faced my high school.
In a dining space that smelled of garlic and olive oil,
Surrounded by the clink of cutlery
And the chatter of youth unfolding,
You were savoring a potato omelette sandwich,
And dropping breadcrumbs on a motocross magazine.

You charted the steps to conquer the racing world:
Seek out the motocross tracks in Gipuzkoa;
Immerse yourself in racing clubs, your gateways
To structured training and expert instruction;
Compete in races and secure victories
So local scribes would ink your triumphs,
Drawing to you sponsors willing to invest.
From there, ascend to regional championships
With prize money and notoriety at stake.

You had brought a bulky backpack
Although you had the day off from work;
You needed to refine your riding technique,
So once I returned to my classroom,
To that monotony of chalk and textbooks,
You would head to the trails at Mount Jaizkibel.

I envisioned you astride your Suzuki RM125,
Navigating those winding, weathered paths
Lined with prickly shrubs,
Skirting cliff edges,
Your bike kicking up clumps of soil,
The distant roar of waves crashing on rocks
As your sole company.

In my mind, your front wheel caught
On a deceptive patch of loose dirt, twisting viciously.
Your world turned into a blur of sky, sea, and earth
As the ground vanished,
And you and your bike hung weightless
Until the rocky outcroppings below
Rushed up to meet you.

I asked you to bring me along;
I could stand around and watch you train.
If you suffered any injury,
I would run to your side and patch you up.
You told me to rest easy: you’d be careful.
Besides, you refused to let me skip class, arguing
That I shouldn’t sacrifice my grades for your sake.

You brought up my mother’s disdain,
Which whispered to me of never again
Holding you tight while lying on the bed
That my parents chose for their son,
Nor smelling your lingering scent on my sheets
As if you were sleeping beside me.

You inquired about my sudden glumness,
And after I confessed, you smirked and assured
That our love wasn’t tethered to any room.

At night, we rode in your Aprilia to Plaiaundi,
And ventured into the deserted ecological park.
In that moonlit, forest-like gloom,
Fireflies meandered like drifting candle flames.
After the rain, the earth exhaled a damp scent.

We ascended the steps of an observation deck
That rose on sturdy wooden stilts
Above the embracing wildness of foliage.
I settled upon the moist boards of the deck.
You nestled into my lap, straddling me,
And draped your arms around my neck.

Leaves whispered, rustling in the breeze,
And crickets chirred in the undergrowth.
My tongue laved over your pebbled areola.
I caressed your nipple with my lips,
Teasing and tugging on the turgid peak,
Gradually drawing it into my wet mouth.
I savored the silky texture of your skin
As it pressed against my taste buds.

Whenever you met me in the evening
Wearing your pleated, knee-length skirt,
You made the wordless promise
That our date would find us heading
To a building with a rustic stone façade,
That back then may have been a minor college.

We wound our way to the building’s rear.
It faced a desolate park and the highway.
In a shadowed colonnade, I claimed a stone bench.
You climbed into my lap, your favorite spot,
Then unzipped me and eased down my boxers.
After your panties joined my keys in my pocket,
You curtained your hips and my legs with the skirt.

I remember what it felt like in the night breeze
When you lowered your hips and slid me inside,
Engulfing me with your slick, velvety depths:
The warmth of a hearth in wintertime.

The same dude used to show up;
He stood in the light cone
Of the sole street lamp,
Drawing puffs from his cigarette
And waiting for his dog to poop.
You and I kept still, embraced,
Your inner walls gripping my length
While our hearts beat as one.

Shoulder-deep in the cool waters of Hendaye Beach,
My bare feet digging into the soaked sand,
I shut my eyes and basked in the warmth
Of the sun’s rays dancing on my face,
And of your tongue, that tasted of salt.
My fingers roamed the skin of your back,
Over the bumps and ridges of your vertebrae.

The sea rolled and receded around us.
The rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore
Blended with the cawing of gulls overhead
And snippets of conversations in French
As if coming from a gramophone in the next room.

Dark strands of your slicked-back hair
Stuck to your cheeks and neck.
Droplets scattered across your smooth skin
Caught the sunlight and glistened.
Your eyelids drooped to a half-lidded stare
As you broke into a mischievous grin.

When you leaned in, I inhaled
The coconut aroma of your sunscreen.
Your thumbs hooked inside my swim shorts.
While your wet lips brushed the shell of my ear,
You asked me to pull down your bikini bottom.

With the spandex garment bunched up mid-calf,
I cupped your firm and fleshy ass cheeks,
And you wrapped your legs around my waist.
As the tip of my member nudged your folds,
I worried about the lack of lubrication.

I wish I could remember how it felt
To make love to you in the sea,
But that memory cuts to a bald old man
Who swam in our orbit
While gawking with a smile spread wide
As if partaking in a private show,
Even though you kept glaring at him.
“What the fuck is that idiot doing?”

Beyond the scrubland at Mount Arburu,
The undulating hills were blanketed in patches
Of dark evergreens and deciduous trees,
Whose trunks had withstood storms
And decades of growth.

Seated at the rear, I clutched at the rider
While your Suzuki shuddered and jolted
Over bumps, rocking us back and forth,
While you wrenched the handlebars
To dodge rocks and bristly bushes
Dotted with yellow flowers.

We lay supine on eroded, sloping bedrock
Beside the feathery fronds of ferns.
Birds chirped in the nearby woods.
My lungs filled with crisp mountain air
That carried the scents of pine and grass,
And the sweet rot of decomposing vegetation.

The sun stretched the shadows of trees
And bathed the scrubland in gold.
Soon enough, our god would hide.
Under that ungraspable, azure dome,
Each succesive hump of the far-off mountains
Became lighter and lighter,
Watercolor washes on a canvas.

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Author’s note: today’s song is “Hey Jane” by Spiritualized.

If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.