Riding tandem leads to love.

To me,

it doesn't make much sense

that I try and describe

how I feel about you

and maybe how we feel about each other

through poetry.

Words are inadequate

when you're sitting across from friends

piling up breadsticks and neatly placing

cups of sauce into rows

and after everything on the table 

looks like a commercial shoot:

forks and knives held in loose fingers

like drawn weapons,

children are doing the laugh-track laughter,

even the lighting makes you feel phototropic.

A friend who's been gone for months 

navigates a straw around ice cubes

and tries speaking through a mouthful of ice tea:

"How're things with that girl, the new one?"

My stomach stomach starts to hurt,

the "standing in line, holding it too long" hurt

that also doubles as the

"love makes you hurt inside your stomach" hurt.

"We're great. We ride our bikes around the park."

He puckers his lips and swallows tea,

"That sounds about right... bike rides lead to love,

at least, that's what they'd lead you to believe."

I stared down at the sauce

and felt like our relationship might need a second opinion

from they,

or something.

I think,

because what my stomach feels

and what he said were so right

and so perfect because they weren't planned,

unlike those bike rides.