I drove to the cape
this morning.
To evade the silence
of the drive,
I listened
to the playlist I’d made
that time I ran a marathon.
I knew it would hurt,
the way mile sixteen had hurt,
deeper and hotter and meaner
than any pain I’d known.
I knew it would hurt
because the songs were yours,
because I ran it for you—
to make you proud,
to prove you wrong,
to give you a reason to celebrate
me,
us,
there was, I thought, an us to celebrate.
I did it for you,
but
the pain is mine.
The songs are mine.