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Unrun Races

My jeans smell of sweat and road and old vegetable sticks and the bottom of my dusty bag. I wear them anyways. I hope no one can smell my travels on my pants. No. No. Wait, no. That's not true. I hope you can. I hope that your nose itches as we sit next to each other on the couch, you on your computer and me staring, blindly, at a book. I hope the faint smell of dirt and drama wafts up as I reposition myself. I hope your eyes sidle away from that box, that bright box of empty words and violent games. I want you to wonder where I've been.


I do not want you to ask me. I want you to turn images over in your brain. I want you to wonder. Was she sweating as she ran for the train? Was she sweating as she was thrown against a wall and explored another man's mouth with her tongue? Knees in dirt. Planting a garden? Did I go to work today? You don't know. I could hop a train and spend the entire day in Milwaukee, eating bacon wrapped everything and drinking craft beers and smoking cigarettes. How would you know? I could have been anywhere. These jeans, this soft smell could hold secrets. The room is silent except for the clicking of your mouse. What are you doing? Are you writing your mom, a friend, an ex - are you working on endless lines of code? what is code? is it important? are you killing creatures, saving another world? are you buying vintage furniture on craigslist--- Can't you you feel me staring into your face. my eyes crawling towards you. peering into the mystery of you? I flip five pages in a row, the book screams into the silence. ok. ok. ok.

ok. ok. OK.


Maybe the pages whisper.

But. Hey. hi. Hey. Darling.

Just. Can you just...look? And. Notice how weird my pants smell?

Breathe with me. Open up and wonder with me. Dream with me. Because.


I don't know. Because I woke up this morning and I had a feeling like our whole lives are screaming past us, just, whipping by like the countryside does when you are in a train or a car or otherwise fast moving apparatus and we don't. I mean, why don't we make plans, like, adult plans, go meet the world instead of waiting for a fucking embossed invitation to make changes, to enter, to grow? We don't talk about the future, our future, hell do we have a future?

We cannot be complacent. It's too short. It is snatched away too often. Do you feel it? Like sand, like water, like one hundred overused cliches. I stand on train platforms and wonder how to make time stop. What would happen if I made me stop. Sudden stop. Close my fist around this endless careening and wandering. StopbreathingStopStopStopPushingTowardsSomethingICannotDefine. I don't know how to say all of this to you because I cannot even find the words to----

Me: What are you doing?

You: Nothing important.

Me: What are you thinking about?

You: Nothing, just relaxing.

Me: Oh. Ok.

My legs twitch with unrun races. OHMYGOD. We should be doing something important right now? Shouldn't we? I mean, weren't we told that we are special? Shouldn't we all be presidents or nobel peace winners or oscar award winning snowflakes - or - employees of the month? We should at least AT LEAST get off the couch and go explore the alleys behind our building. Wonder at the treasures people throw away. Carve our names into pavement. AT LEAST.

Instead, I flip unread pages. Create a waft to carry the smell of my jeans. Bore my eyes into your skull. Wonder what is happening in you. Do you feel this? Smell this? Do thoughts marathon behind your eyes? Does your heart bite at the bit and struggle towards an unknown finish line?

typing pauses.eyebrows raise. nose wrinkles.

....Maybe you do smell my jeans.

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