Loving you is like riding a bicycle. I’ll have to expect to get a few scraped knees before I really get the hang of it. I’ll have to expect a little wobbling before I finally trust that both my feet don’t need to touch the ground. I’ll have to push past the fear of falling and keep going, like I’ll never lose balance.
Loving you is like riding a bicycle. I’ll need to know when I have to change gears. I’ll need to be able to tell when I have to pedal harder, and when to go with the flow. I’ll need to work through the uphills and be cautious on the downhills. But most of all, I’ll need to not get tired of level ground.
Loving you is like riding a bicycle, the car might take me there in half the time, but I won’t smell the flowers. The train may be efficient, but I’d sacrifice the view. I could take the bus, but I’d be restricted to the road.
Loving you is like riding a bicycle. Once I learn how, I’ll never want to go back onto training wheels. I’ll never want to have to go slow, or start from scratch. Because nobody wants to return to flat concrete of their driveways, once they’ve discovered they can weather arduous terrain.
Loving you is like riding a bicycle, if I want to enjoy the breeze, I’ll have to be prepared to get my hair messy. If I want to feel the sunshine on my face, I’ll need to know that it could scorch me. If I want to delight in drizzle, I’ll need to know that it could rain.
Loving you is like riding a bicycle, once in a while, I’ll want to lift my hands off the handle bars; just to feel the thrill of not holding on. Because as indecisive creatures, we are both afraid of getting hurt but adamant against feeling bored. We want the option of the brakes, yet refuse to put our knee guards on.
Loving you is like riding a bicycle. How long ago the last ride is irrelevant, and how far the last place doesn’t count. Because though I may not remember when, or where, or who, or what, or why – loving you is like riding a bicycle; I can never really forget how.