it was one of those nights when we really had to concentrate on getting home. even though you lived in allston for a few years at this point, each street corner, littered with dark glass and dead leaves, looked the same. red bricks stacked in banal, yet strong skeletons and a concrete passage way that cuts through the precise city plan restricts us to unfamiliar sidewalks. but i just moved here, how could i be expected to recognize this so quickly?
the day before we rode our bikes in the summer-like october weather to the grassy yard that held up the statehouse. we sat, took pictures, and ate lunch. cambridge finally started to look beautiful to me, like an older man or woman. the bikes that we swerved in and out of traffic with now stand separately; mine locked comfortably on our front porch and yours is being pushed through the clumsy, wet night.
we eventually find the overpass that hung above the mass pike; leaving lower allston, heading home. you grew tired of pushing your rusty old bike and decided to lock it up to a street sign outside of a friends apartment. the funny thing is this wasn't even your bike, it was your friend's, she let you borrow it. you had it for so long, it just felt like your own and it was easy to take for granted, especially when you knew you were getting a new one in the mail the upcoming week. so you left it there. the cold metal frame stands lonely under an irritating orange glow cast from a streetlight. like in the spotlight, ashamed of the attention. we stumble on, and get home.
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