Whenever I run I see someone that you know, or something else that once meant something to us. Do I seek it out? I’m not sure. In every cardinal direction, there is a memory—another dog that gives me chase. On empty streets, in distant intersections, I stumble unexpectedly on something we shared: a restaurant we visited last December, where, sitting alone on the top floor, we kissed whenever the server’s back was turned. Last night, after I was finished, cooling down on the street in front of my apartment, I took three turns to avoid your friends, slowly converging and diverging as if they’d left my house themselves, or as if it was the place they were returning to: whenever I rounded the corner, there they were. At the moment I don’t trust myself enough to meet their eyes. Only without my glasses, in a haze of uncertainty, will I greet them in that way. And, surprised, say hello—and only if I’m still running, trying to move as quick as I can. 

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