I don’t want to make this about me.

Not when there’s so little left to go around.

But the hills I ran to burn. Loma Alta Drive gasps like I did, With his hands; with his belt, around my neck.

I ran to the dirt, and the scrub, and the peaceful backyard horses; their necks too big to choke.

Hills can only run in lines.

My oldest friends: do what I did. Bury your body in the dirt of your own gentle rise.

Let her sleep there, where the winds don’t blow. You’ll wake up again someday, Like I did.

Thanks to you, I did.