All of my friends became shadows 
at the age of fifteen,
and you rode away from me
almost as we’d met. 
I remember when I was you,
you pushing red glasses up your nose 
and flying through history, 
a guiding Orion already growing, 
the constellation of freckles on our arm.
I wonder sometimes: 
Could I catch you if I still had my bike?

By Heidi Turner