My mother has always been a runner
Half marathons at mid 50s, she never fails to surprise me
I can pull 3 miles out of me, on a random Tuesday morning
When my legs move faster than my mind
Although I don’t own personalized sneakers and have special playlists,
I am still a runner.
There are two boys.
One, would die for me and wants nothing more than me
The other, is hard.
He is complicated, but he is real; he has the power to break my heart.
I have given him the power, ever since I first locked lips with him
He says he doesn’t want relations, just to move along together
Continuously repeating moments of the past, being borne back ceaselessly
I’ve sat at too many parties on their fine leather couches, waiting for father time to be on my side
And move the clock a thousand times faster
Hoping my sadness will subside, because keystone light and lighters don’t seem to be doing the trick
But I sat there on that Friday night, in my pushup bra and poser lululemon leggings, hoping that you wouldn’t run.
I hoped you would take me out to the garage, steal his lawnmower with me, and do something we remember to tell our grandkids about
Or maybe even my mother, years after when I have a job and an apartment
She would gasp out of awe at my recklessness, laughing out of shock and saying she’s not surprised
She’d say, goddamn, you were really in love, and I’d say,
I sure as hell was.