Not to Run

Insistence comes easy on cool ground,
as do rhapsodies, fanciful promise with full intent.
But the sun is a trance-breaker, 
and this concrete shifts to crimson.
Muscles burn, igniting their memories
and replacing those of my resolve to stand
until physicality urges me to run.
Ten feet, perhaps twelve,
where salvation comes in grey.
I’ll plant myself in this episodic novelty
and revel,
no care for the encroaching danger.
I’ll wrap new promises as a gift.
Crease the paper, ignore the pattern.
I’ll fool us both with earnesty
and promise not to run.