It was not the sight of your body
that killed me.
Rather, it was your
running gear, and the way it seemed
pillaged off of you.
Rather, it was the way
the nurse held these things,
and the way she said
“belongings,”
as if that was all you were.
I’m sorry, but I felt embarrassed for you.
If you go back to the hospital today,
you might find me still standing there.
I don’t mean I left my innocence
scattered among the tiles,
I mean, I think I never moved on
from witnessing your downfall.
From the bruises on your face,
from your watch, still chirping,
calling for
another mile,
another.
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