02/24/2026
“Before the Streetlights Blinked On”
We rode where the pavement shimmered in heat,
bare knees, untied shoes,
handlebars warm from the sun.
No buzzing pockets.
No glowing screens.
Just the hum of tires
and a freedom we didn’t know
was rare.
The whole neighborhood was our kingdom—
mailboxes as finish lines,
driveways as racetracks,
hydrants spraying silver rainbows
into July air.
We memorized the rhythm of gravel,
the click of playing cards in spokes,
the way laughter carried
longer than any ringtone ever could.
Time didn’t chase us then.
It stretched wide and golden,
smelling of cut grass
and sunscreen and possibility.
We didn’t text.
We knocked.
We didn’t scroll.
We soared—
down hills that felt like mountains,
into evenings that refused to end.
And when the streetlights blinked on,
that was the only notification
we needed.
Somewhere in the echo of spinning wheels
and scraped-up shins
lives a version of us
still pedaling toward dusk—
carefree, sunburned,
and absolutely alive. 🌅
