My Worn Sneakers

In a brief moment my run crushes me, bringing me right to the edge of a cliff, not just any cliff, but my own cliff. My own right in the face moment, when the day is bleakest, grayest, when I am old and feeble, and the words " touch me" come loud out of the pre dawn silence. My own right in the center of the universe silence, where I stand, all alone, under a cold hard rain, wiping drops from my face, my hand wet, touching me in memory, not just any memory, but my own memory.

 My own shadows of past, my longing to be felt, seen, heard, on a snowy path, in the dark of night. Not just any night, but my own night. My own darkness of suffocation, of pillaging through the forest, my search for air to fill my lungs, not just any search, but my own search. My own soul emptying search, my own silence, my own shadow, my own darkness, my own memory, the unimaginable edge of a cliff, where I stand all alone in purest solitude. In a brief moment, the running opens every pore of my being, without anything, or anyone, surrounding me; I stand, on the edge of a cliff...

If you could see me at this moment. If you could hold me close. If moments of memory washed away the despair. If bloody hands were to stroke me. If I smiled past the wet of my eyelashes. If I drew clumsy, lost, hungry, but no longer afraid. If I forced myself up. Then set my chin down on your shoulder. Slipping out of my sneakers. The earth soft as clay. Myself, tattered and torn. Faint with thirst. Famished with hunger. Would you lie down with me next to the river? Uttering another life. Would you pull back, gaze up? Brushing the hair from my face.

Is it then, that you would think that you have become close enough, to really know the girl that tastes like salty sweat and wears worn sneakers?