Back Dimples

On my bike, my hand slides under my shirt,
flat against my lower back.
I let myself believe it’s yours.
The bumpy streets move like your steps beside me,
your hand on my back dimples,
the exact way you used to hold me in public.

Some days I was your pet, led through streets like a thing on a leash.
Other days I was a child again, steered clear of every curb,
every reckless turn I might have taken alone.
But never, not once, when your hand was there,
on my back dimples,
the exact way you used to hold me in public.

Two small bones flank that place,
relics, they say, of when we still had tails.
Now I press my own thumb and finger there,
copying a memory.
It is the last trace of you left in my life,
my hand on my own back,
the exact way you used to hold me in public.