For the one that got away...
I saw her gleam through pixel light,
A Banshee bold, a dream in flight.
She called to me with wicked grace—
A perfect frame, her metal face.
Her name was Viente, fierce and fast,
A shadow built to climb and blast.
A siren song red, white and black,
She almost set my compass back.
But distance stretched—a costly quest,
And peace of mind can’t ride unrest.
To chase her down, I’d pay in kind:
My hours, dollars, settled mind.
The price was low, the seller cursed—
A numbered beast that made me thirst.
Like Faust, I paused, hand near my pen…
Was this just a bike, or fate again?
For I have steeds in quiet stalls,
Two lovely frames with greasing calls.
Their chains lie slack, their forks unkept—
Projects waiting where time has slept.
To add another, though she’s divine,
Would steal the light from those that pine.
And worse, I’d guard her every part,
With anxious hands and cluttered heart.
She’s the right ride at the wrong time,
A perfect verse with faulty rhyme.
Like a young love I let slip past—
Too soon, too much, too bright to last.
So let her roll to someone new,
I’ll hold my stable, ride it true.
Yet still I ache, not for the ride,
But for the chance I set aside.