I Am Made For Running. Because When

I Had Forgotten This About Love: How The Simple Things- The Turn Away, The Turn Towards- Could Be So Complicated, And How The Complicated Things- The Stolen Night, The Right Words- Could Be So Simple.

You Make It A Production. Slam Doors. Knock Things Over. Scream. But I Just Leave. Even If I'm Still Standing There, I Leave. I Am Refusing You. I Am Denying You. I Am An Adjective That Is Quickly Turning Into A Noun.

...but The Truth Is That I Don't Feel Like I Can Carry Anyone But Myself Right Now. The Streets Are Empty. I Am Empty. Or, No--i Am Full Of Pain. It's My Life That's Empty.

In School, The Year Was The Marker. Fifth Grade. Senior Year Of High School. Sophomore Year Of College. Then After, The Jobs Were The Marker. That Office. This Desk. But Now That School Is Over And I've Been Working At The Same Place In The Same Office At The Same Desk For Longer Than I Can Truly Believe, I Realize: You Have Become The Marker. This Is Your Era. And It's Only If It Goes On And On That Will Have To Look For Other Ways To Identify The Time.

I Was Sixteen And Equipped With The Appropriate Genitalia, So I Cleared That Hurdle Nicely.