Four years to confront the runner.
You were always running, weren’t you? I see it clearly now standing on this floor littered with the basketball and track jerseys you left behind.
All of these worn uniforms of this place rotting in black garbage bags.
I’ll see you again. A stranger with whom I share a past we’ll both pretend to ignore.
It’s funny, the bags don’t pain me as much as the hangers. Because tomorrow the bags will be gone, but the hangers will stay in the closets; ghost scaffolding of the places you once claimed.
I love you.