We weren't meant to be this out of breath, but every afternoon there's broken sweat from when we broke pace and ran out of time. Everything moves faster here, but every street has a stoplight, so every red light is a moment of pause, closed eyed mouth hung open exhalation before eyes are fixed hard on each other, moving again with the green light's permission, pushing forward in the rhythm of footfalls or wheels bouncing hard against the rough pavement - then the flash of red, brake lights and shouts, everything noise, everything silence as eyes move upward and fine nothing harmed, everything beautiful, everything placid, relief flooding veins with a sweet exhaustion and nostrils rejoicing as an acrid sweat is discovered, body shivering too late with panic, that delirious lubricant making a mess of it all. But no blood, no shattered glass. In the waning evening light, there are slow, even breaths, and we rest.
-Chicago
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