The last time I ran was at Point Reyes where the green earth
slopes down jutting out over the Pacific.
There I ran down to the edge
to the salty wind and spray against my face
and the Sun creating a warmth of Heart unknown before.
The last time I ran he was there watching, laughing
daring me to run faster because he knew it was my last time.
We made love in an old farmhouse where his back
sucked by the drain in the old claw hammer tub
left a purple mark on the backside of his heart.
.
The last time I ran was the first time I felt alive.
In Her with him and Sun and the Ocean’s fine mist that
kept us there . . . together
for a short and passionate time of touch, fire, warmth.
The morning found me staring straight ahead into a fractured future,
where a bit of light shining through gave me courage
so that yes was my response to is your heart willing to be broken?
Even then I knew the broken place is where healing begins.
Photo: Christina Satalova at Unsplash
Poem: The Last Time, 1997