is a false start, like
when you tripped on me in the first 200 yards
of college, and your foot caught on mine,
fumbling over your words when you told me,
i like you a lot
and our laces were tied, single knotted,
running in tandem, footsteps matched and smooth
for the next 1800 yards,
until the knots started to chafe
and the trails we passed by caught on your shirt,
pulling your attention away, away,
while i pulled you back to our path,
each time loosening our ties until finally
breaking apart, muddy trodden laces streaming,
your back disappearing amongst
the chrysanthemums lining the trail,
because i have always
and you have never been — ready.