sunday afternoon. and lucky 7 sleeps balled up in a comforter and soft sea-green sheets. she's tired. she's hurting... and dreaming along with long lost tunes that dance her heart into yesterday. back when she was a little bit younger, a little bit softer...and stupid. idealistic to the point of believing the impossible...of what came from his soft crooked lips.
and so she runs. amidst the multitudes, alone on quiet sunday morning streets. and there is no answer to reach. no huge exclamation point. no neon orange traffic cones, marking any distinct destination. just bruised heels and sore quads. and this makes it real. makes what's balled up inside solid and easier to deal with.
i run. and sometimes, that makes you as far as the other side of the world. other times, you're too damn close.