We talked, maybe an hour, maybe more, maybe less. We talked fervently. I reached for each moment, clenched tight, but free flowing. I wanted every moment, every breath, every pain. I moved through this conversation with the ease and grace of the butterfly, and yet with the fluidity of the wind you beat me. You reached the end before I knew I could. The pace was quick, and the sound was quiet, the words you spoke were what I needed, what I hated, what I loved. I kept pace, I searched for a breath, I struggled to finish as gracefully as I began. The whisper moved the hair from my face. The heat hit me, kept me at bay, the tension, the desire. We danced in the shadows and forced moments in the light. The pace was hard and fast, undeterred; yet lacking any real direction, no goal no path straight to follow. I pushed your arms one by one, and felt you soft on my face, warm on my neck and cool at the end of it all. I felt the end, cool in the heat. I finished. I ran. I ran maybe an hour today, maybe more, maybe less.