yellow sweat

in the dead of winter it's hard to imagine those hot summ'ry nights
when the crickets and frogs make so many sounds it's difficult to find your own original thought
summer and fall is when we ran our hardest
we pulled our muscles against hills and weights
hoping for a few more moments or maybe a miracle
i starved myself until the days lost their shape and only those timed moments mattered
we laced yellow spikes and raced until our stomachs curled in agony
i remember the sweat falling off my chin and soaking my jersey
as if the fabric itself had become glued to my chest
i still recall the sound of labored breathing in a runner who knows nothing
beyond the click of the stopwatch