The death of a bicycle.
It has broken "peddles" and the basket is gone, the victim of your stunt rides, the bearer of your school bag, the dragged burst tyres and the faded metal gray finish. In blood, wounds, sun, rain and sports days, what stayed with me was this bicycle. When I proudly picked it, saw it being assembled and rode it to school everyday I infested a coating of the soul on it. Some bond was made on 11th of November. Some far memory such as Samarkand cold sprang up when you proudly chanted away how it is daily bruised now. I see the glare and guilt inducing stare. I know I am your culprit my dear Devil in red letters.You stand in the courtyard like everyday, just a little more worn, rusted, feasted upon by my brother. My mate in ruins, sharer of my grandpa's hopes and the most comfortable seat in scorching afternoons, I leave you at the mercy/non-mercy of the brother. Sorry.
