I wear my noose like a necklace,

keep the time to my death like a watch

I count down the days on my calendar

paint my coffin with a Home Depot paint swatch

Destiny is not predetermined,

all its cheating, stealing and lies

Our problems are all insignificant

in the end- everyone dies!

Yet the hangman still sharpens his axes

the executioner puts on a mask

You realize you didn't say thank you

you realize you never called back

But I wear my noose like a necklace

count down the days till I die

my family will know that I love them

When Death decides to stop by

Every page of her planner is full to the margins.

Her friends grow to expect her handwritten letters

She laughs loudly,

lipstick stains her teeth

The life of the party and the death of her mother

Unashamed nightly cosmopolitans

She stays up late and wakes up early,

eager to experience life.

"There's something about red, isn't there?" She asked as she turned in the mirror, examining her perfect body from every angle.

"What do you mean?" Max asked, too caught up in her body to pay much focus to the question.

"Every woman looks good in red. It's intense yet subtle at the same time. You ought to know this Max, you want to be a designer, don't you?"

"No Nicole," Max said irately, "I don't want to be a designer anymore. I told you last May, rememeber? I'm literally in school to be an engineer."

"Mhm," replied Nicole absentmindedly, lips pursed as she applied crimson lipstick while staring at her reflection in the mirror.

Max sighed, his sneakered foot toeing a tear in the carpet. "Why are you all dressed up anyway?"

"Didn't I tell you?" She exclaimed innocently, blue eyes widening. "Sam and I are going to his parent's yearly charity auction! It's supposed to be a huge deal, I think senators will be there!"

Max bit his lip. "Nicole..." he began, his soft blond eyebrowns dipping into a frown, "I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with how much you and your ex-boyfriend hang out. I know that you guys are friends, but these days it feels like you see him more than you see me! It really makes me uncomfortable."

Nicole rolled her eyes. "Ughhh," she groaned, "You're such a baby. I'd never go for Sam. Stop obsessing over me. By the way," she paused, arching an eyebrow, "I should be back by 1 or 2am if you maybe wanted me to come over?"

Normally, the prospect of having Nicole anywhere near him at night would have excited Max, but the nights of waking up at 2am were wearing on him.

"I don't know Nicole, I never get to go on dates with you anymore. I have Physics at 7am, that's not a lot of sleep for me."

"What do you mean?!" She exclaimed, sliding her feet into seven inch red stilletos. "I go out of my way to see you. It's not my fault that I'm busy."

Max bit his lip. "But that's the thing, I'm really not out of the way for you. I'm just a stop on your way to see Sam." He paused, staring up at the ceiling. Finally, he laughed. "I don't know how to phrase this, Nicole, but I think I should just come out and say it. I think we should break up."

"Excuse me?!" Exclaimed Nicole, arching two perfect eyebrows. "Please, you'd never find better than me. I'm out of your leauge and you know it."

"I'd have to be pretty pathetic if you were the best I could do," frowned Max, "I think you're the most vain and self absorbed person I've ever met. And I've never heard you say something that sounded remotely intelligent. We're done. This is the last and final time I'll be with you."

Some people have flying dreams. I have running ones. It's ironic isn't it, the man who can't walk dreams about running? I exaggerate of course, I can walk. Just not well. Age isn't normally kind, and it's kept up its trend with me. They don't exaggerate, kids, arthritis is a bitch. If you combine arthritis with an old knee injury, you get a man who needs a cane to walk seven steps. I'm not bitter about it, though, I know I've had my fun.

Running was never a huge part of my life. I played football through college and was moderately active through my youth and early adulthood. Like most, I'd pick up the hobby of running when my jeans would get a bit too tight, or when I'd have one too many sweets. I never particulary loved the hobby. Running is hard.

Despite this, every other night I wake up running. Well, sometimes I sprint or jog or meander through, but I'm always running. Sometimes I'm getting away from something or running to something, or just running for the hell of it. Still, I'm always running.

I wouldn't say I avoid my problems either. I'm a turn-and-face-it kind of guy, not a run-away-from-my-problems-dude. Macy says it's because I have unresolved conflict in my life and that the running is my body's way of working through it. I'd disagree though, a man in his early 80's shouldn't have too much conflict.

My theory is that it's my body's way of remembering. Even though the location and speed changes every time, it never hurts. My body moves smoothly, crisply, every muscle and tendon working together in harmony. It's magical, and I never seem to stop. I wish I could run that way in my waking life. It just isn't the same. I can't run half as fast as I could at forty, and I can run about three times less of distance. Youth was so clear, so crisp, so powerful. Those memories are the strongest.

I know that I won't be around for much longer, and I'm okay with that. Every thing has it's time, and I'm approaching mine. It seems as if I dream longer and more vividly every night, running farther and farther, faster and faster, tirelessly seeking out a place to rest. So, no, I'd rather not have a flying dream.