Run

It cools off just before the sun sets. You have a 22 minute window of cool air before it is dark. The dog greets you upon your return, walks you to your door before loping off into the grass. 

You miss running like you used to, but you lap up the 22 minutes, try to enjoy your burning muscles though they show too soon. She sends a video where a tall, black man says we need at least 8 hugs a day to survive. You look around the farm, think it will be months before you are touched again, it doesn't seem fair. 

You wish you could run another ten miles. 

There are cockroaches in the kitchen sink every morning. It's not the same. But the sun sets over the desert in a way that fills your chest to the brim, you ran a little longer today than you did yesterday, the nights are getting cooler in a way that feels like a comfort. 

There are moments to be had yet. 

Even when no one holds you while they happen.