otoh

She has a runner’s form, long and lean. Thin ankles and round calves. Long legs and slender waist. Pony tail swinging with each step. A few stray hairs sticking to the sweat on the nape of her neck. Her breath is measured to her stride.

“Poetry in motion,” I think as she runs and runs and runs. Her skin glistens and I feel the heat. For hours, it seems, I watch her body move. Just a few paces behind. And then I stop. Her feet pound the ground and the blood pounds in my head and everything fades away slowly. As I realize. She isn’t — she never was — running toward me.

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