The hurt you masked with words,
The words you overwrote with others.
The sparks you tried to blow out,
The fountain you pretended to choke at its sprout.
The stolen glances in which you memorized us.
The commas we’ve had in punctuation,
Like little breaks from oxygen.
It has never been about the run, nor about the chase.
I grasped it all from your eyes-nestled in your embrace.