My shoes are scattered in my truck.

I don’t plan for that.

My days catch-up to me.

I don’t want to be caught.

My boss is miserable.

I call him “my boss”, because he belongs to me, like a slave, while I am the master.

My shoes carry me where I need to go—golfing, running, and working, and not necessarily in that order.

I am different in different places.

My coworkers are the same. Their shoes are scuffed.

I change clothes, shoes, personalities, constantly.

My best self is hidden, completely.

I need to hide.

My magic is the last light from the sun—it glows brightly, beneath the horizon.

6 thoughts on “The Shoes I Wear to Outrun the Sun

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