I ran home. The girl on the corner stood and watched. I hit the hill hard and hung to the inside edge of the curve to disappear more quickly. Trailers blurred and dogs strained against their chains. I stopped counting at 20. Then it was just my legs and my lungs, the rhythm of my feet on the pavement marking time against my breath. The color of my skin was only the color of exertion. I could feel the rubber sole slap against my heel, feel it pull away with each stride. I felt like I was pushing the earth itself behind me. I didn't need words to run. To run, I didn't need blue eyes. All I needed were my worn out sneakers, my legs, my lungs, a place to start and a place to end. Distance and air and the slow ache in my side returned my body to my self. I was in my skin again, telling it what to do. I ran home.
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