running.
we’re supposed to run at ten thirty, and you call me fifteen minutes before. at first i can’t understand you. “we still running?” you say, your voice muffled through the phone and probably a shirt and a deep layer of sleep. “yes,” i say, and grin helplessly. it’s not fair that you’re cute this early in the morning— the night before a late one, filled with booze and girls and who-knows-what-else—and that you have suddenly come back into my life. you are reminding me of all the reasons i fell for you, six years ago, only this time the reasons have evolved with your own maturity. it’s not fair that i never quite forgot.
when you show up at my door you’ve still got the imprint of the wrinkles in your sheets on your right arm. i make myself look away.
