Morning Run (and my Threads of Life)

  A drip of sweat nestles in the gully between my breasts in a secret meeting with my nipples, breath unzips from the center of my chest, as the pulsating of my heart presses outward from my innermost flesh. Sacrificing thought to adrenaline rushed stupor, as the intoxication creeps into both my sneakers. The music of my breath is the only rhythm that plays in the background, as sweat drips down in dance across my breastbone. 

Birds with elephant ears grab hold of my whispers, as chosen secrets spill in silent confession. The drone of air dissolves in the gentle splashing of water that cascades down my flesh. My sophisticated drip-by-drip irrigation system efficiently delivering water to all my roots, as leftover spills from my pores. My feet meander the path, as sullen dark cloud bursts form in the distance. In a gesture of polite refusal, I wipe away a body drip hanging closest to my lips. Much of my thought negotiated in purest silence this morning, as a rush of cold air brushes my face as I run a dirt road, leading me into a three mile trail of stone houses and the smell of wood burning chimneys. A horse behind a white post fence, in hesitation, gives me a complicated stare.........I stare back, and he releases. Wandering down the back of my thigh, an intrusive sympathetic shudder of morning chill. I pull on a thread, which unravels my glove. Threads are a peculiar (yet very necessary) part of me.

 The threads that hang from my scarves, the threads that I rip from the hem of my skirt, the thread that holds my fingers in place to type on my keyboard, the thread that runs the length of my body to my feet that holds my heart, the thread I need to yank on each time I need to pick my heart up off the ground again, yes, threads, my threads of life. 

The long thread that attaches me to someone else, somewhere else, some time and place I have yet to be. The threads that run through my soul, wrapping around my thin waist, tidying up the loose ends of things complicated. It is these threads that make me feel guilty, that make me smell innocence, make me feel whole, make me feel lost and desperate, make me feel love, make me believe in hope and forever, make me sing to a song which I just know will bring me to tears, (but I sing along anyway, just because the tears feel good) as some tangible thread of my life gets pulled along, and I find a tree to tie it on, on a silent deserted path, up a dirt road, where stone houses and fire burning chimneys are all my sneakers are after. I stop to listen, and it is then, that I again learn how to breathe, holding onto all of my threads, as I tie them to the tree, and carve my initials into the bark.