1,000 times

I ran 4 miles today.

I spread the sheets on my bed. A good run should feel like that–smooth, tight, snug, flat. Strips and streams. A surface to pass. It rains all around me. I sit on the edge of sleep: the waiting room to sleep. The sky is gray, and the trees seem garish above me. Orange and sharp. Violence at random to the eyes. The leaves fall away, and I’m surprised by the expansiveness of the sky. How open we are to everything else, now, this time of year. How exposed my days will seem.

You came in this morning before I had a chance to brew the words up. To make a page or two. I spent the rest of the day…lingering. My thoughts out of reach. Out of touch. And like so, my switch from thoughts to words never got flipped.

I sat in the back of the car. My finger reached for the button, and the window came down. I leaned my face into the wind. Cow shit and wet dirt. Leaves decaying somewhere. I listened to you talk. How funny it is to hear you plant the same seeds with another, and to watch their reaction differ from mine. I leaned over into the seat. The smooth fake leather of something. I wanted to sleep like that. With the window open and the car moving and my eyes closed and your voices ebbing in and out. This is the feeling–this is the meaning of home. The point. When I was young, I used to pretend to sleep in the car. Just to have the quiet. Just to listen to the voices ebb in and out. My parents never knew.

A lot of the time they thought I was missing the things, but I was there the whole time.

My quiet is my presence. I don’t think my words will be what you remember. They can’t keep. It just is.

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