If I ran for you
would you count
the beads of sweat
dropping, if you could,
in your open palm,
to remind you
of how much I ran
and how hard?
Would you harvest
its salt and pool that
with what I lost in tears?
Would you listen
to the surplus heartbeat
pushing its way
through a rib cage
strained in its breaths
to keep the dizziness
in, the air from exploding?
And if I stood for you
hours in a crowded airport
swimming through faces
to find yours,
would you pick me up
in a second to take
the soreness and
pour it all out?
I sometimes dream for you
knowing full well that
my tossing and turning
will never be caught gently
or soothed to forgetfulness,
yet still my body
refuses to give up
remnants of things
it used to give you.
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