It was his steadiness that caught my attention,
The rhythm of the running man.
Pace after pace,
Each stiff stride following the next,
As his figure slowly gave itself,
To the fog,
That lined the predawn street.
But in moments,
He was gone.
Or maybe, I was gone,
Quickly passing in a cloud,
Of exhaust and bewilderment.

One cycle of time ticked away,
And I recognized the broadness of his shadow,
Illuminated by the tinted lamplight.
The running man.
Travelling in and out of the void,
With stoic ease.
Pulling against the taut rope,
Tearing away from the grip.

It was as if my spirit had known his for an eternity.
And in his brief,
Yet inevitable,
Absence,
My veins shriveled,
My mind ached,
And I feared the worst.
I often imagined his silhouette,
Gliding by,
But one quick shut of my weak eyes,
Would shock me into reality.
The running man,
Dissolved into the frigid air.

Upon his return,
His gait had changed.
He now knew something that I could never.
Our past became increasingly distant.
I watched him gaze into the sky,
Fathoming the combinations of time and space,
Outlining the constellations above him.
I anticipated the turn of his head,
And the burn of his eyes,
On my thin skin,
But the pain never came.

The running man,
Began again,
Just the same,
in and out of the void.
Steady and restless.