My Writing

When I Ran

When I ran,

you thought

I was never

coming back.


After all,

how could I

look upon this

house again?


It’s old and stained,

the pillars creak,

the staircase wobbles,

and the clock ticks backward.


When I ran,

you thought

you would see me again

in the forest,


surrounded by green

and blue

and yellow, in the morning

before the grey mist falls.


The trees stretch tall

enough to climb, and if

we stand on tiptoes,

we might see everything.


When I ran,

I said

that I would

stay away.


I would climb

the tallest oak

and jump

from branch to branch,


I would fly

over thick concrete walls

and land on all fours

like a cat.


But I knew

when I ran

that I would 

run back,


back here, to our

crumbling house;

here, where grey mist hangs

and trees only grow if we beg;


I’ve never flown before.

I land on my knees,

not my feet, 

but most of all,


You are here.

I am here.

We are here;



of course, I came running back.


Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash