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 em
