The garage door opens to cathedral dust,
Where wrenches hang like relics on the wall,
I strip the engine down to chrome and rust,
And feel my hands remembering the call.

There’s scripture in the service manual,
A liturgy of torque specs, gaps, and shims,
My hands grow fluent in the mechanical,
And learn to speak in camshafts, valves, and pins.

She came to me a heap of scattered parts,
A basket case the seller couldn’t name,
Such stillness lives inside these iron arts—
And in my dream, I am the iron frame.

My wife says I smell different now, like fuel,
That I don’t blink as often as I should,
I kiss her cheek—my lips are dry and cool—
And promise her that everything is good.

I haven’t left the garage in thirteen nights,
My wife leaves dinner at the door, meanwhile,
I eat it cold beneath the fluorescent lights,
And something in my chest has learned to idle.

Once I woke up weeping on the floor,
My hands still wrapped around a crankshaft case,
I crawled halfway to the kitchen door—
Then turned around to find my proper place.

I notice oil is beading on my skin,
A faithful engine idles somewhere near,
My blood is slowly cooling from within,
And I am becoming chrome and gear.

My wrists have locked to handlebars of steel,
My vertebrae are clicking into chain,
My heart has traded blood for something real,
And I have never felt so free of pain.

She’s finished now, immaculate and still,
I mount her in the driveway, turn the key,
And ride out past the highway, past the hill—
The wind tears through us both—at last, set free.

They found the bike alone. Still running. Warm.