There is the toothbrush she used once that you bought for her,
which will probably go to waste
There are the times she broke you, almost, that led here, to this,
that had the line draw itself — a quick-start marker for something that now, you figure, seems as good a time as any for
that had the line draw itself — a quick-start marker for something that now, you figure, seems as good a time as any for
There are the Polariods tacked to your fridge that one by one you will remove. And the lumps of tack, spaced four inches apart,
still clinging to the mirror of your dresser
There is that rush coursing though your veins
that makes it feel better now you're running down the track to somewhere you're not sure of, but hoped for, with her
Now's as good a time as any, you say
There was the slow burn to the quick: her blood-shot eyes and unsure smile just enough to drink up, then find your frame against hers —
mirrors in the moments you each allowed the sink of thick lips to dream for the night
There were the times that went unmentioned —
mornings where she noticed the pale blue vessels by your eyes as you slept, the faint mole by your lip. And never said a thing
There is her head over a bucket, heart thumping — the soft veins in her temples rushing, the 'huh-huh' sharp breaths in her crying, because she said her heart wasn't built for running, but pace she prayed she could do
There is something new, more fresh than stale words and broken breath, that puts a glint in your eye, a thin flush through your arteries — it dulls the whispers as your heart dances the quick-step
There is that careening feeling now that gives just enough hope to keep you running — tack marks in a heart dancing fast might heal,
if you just keep those eyes fixed ahead, and run
if you just keep those eyes fixed ahead, and run
(Image: Tema Stauffer)
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