No longer running from or towards him, addressing past runs and what the consequences have been, so much more than dehydration. The dried flowers, my new running routine, and the echoes of sweet words and sweat are all that remain.
“Taught her young, the only things she’d need to carry on, he taught her how to run baby, run baby, run baby, run baby run. She smiles the secret smile, and sure she knows exactly how to carry on so run baby run baby run baby run baby run”
Favorite things missing, kissing tender touches goodbye and comfortably numb, well sometimes. Numb and yet patient, traist, kind, and I can’t hear what he is saying but I can hear another song “I hear your feeling down, well I can ease your pain. Get on your feet again”. I’ve been writing like I used to, cryptic, my own, the freedom, the ease. I may lose readers if I have any but I have always felt I was more of a poet. Run baby run, you’d think I would know better by now but I was raised with runners. They were always running from something, my parents, my siblings, so much trauma; all I feel like I am trying to do is repair mine, soothe theirs and if anyone reading this feels any sort of relief or connection, this is for you too.
-B
