September towered above me quivering. I’d admired her instead of climbing as I’d learned, but there she was, and me behind.
I took up sprinting too late in November.
Two thumbs and a century of repetition ahead; December stalemate.
She took the business – shook the hand.
I mistook the sleep – out of reach.
Removed my red ones – We could have just touched.
Pulled on the wool ones –