on how i will run you out of my bones.

it's the running.
it's the running in the night,
the race against the dark
the falling of fall's fingertips along the treeline

as if the leaves are sucking
the last breaths of sunlight and
florescence from the daytime

gasping and grasping and
ringing in one final push of color
against the dark like

a need to
keep going

to wear down until the bones show

to pound those memories of me and of you
into the sand along the reservoir along
the water's edge and the edges of waters
at the edges of cities by lakes.