To you I've run a million times, to you I've submitted myself over and over again. I dawdle over people and things and reserve my impatience for you, for that is what you mean to me: the intransigence I can afford to turn into. You're my idea of the urgency to collide. I don't care how it contradicts the concept of belonging to something. If I'm the pointer ticking on the clock of our lives, you're not every second of it, you're the occasional time I reach. I don't care how it contradicts the rightful need to freeze time. You're a moment I have to deserve, not a lifetime stretched and held by law. So I let you leave, so I let me leave, so I let room for acknowledgement of what a moment can mean. And I'm running. But this time around, I won't see you soon for impatience is trying to burn the other pages I've lived, and if I let it, you'll also mean a conflict to me, and I'll never be able to submit. So I have to work harder. So I'll see you after a while.