Leftovers

I find it difficult to run for numbers these days. I go out to cross the finish line, I pat myself on the back simply for making it through. The people I love watch me and not watches, they offer their supportive shoulders when my legs drag and my lungs dry-heave. I feel most treasured midweek, on bus rides to Wednesday meets where leftovers get stuffed when unwanted, refrigerated raw and uncut. Those teammates who love me most cheer and chant my name on weeknights without wasting time on time and place. I want my brothers to see I’ve spent years smearing dirt on my face, I want them to see I feel alive and enough simply by running round and round in intimate circles with the people I love