At mile marker thirteen,
everything is numb.
Around the block time and again,
the cycle never done.

Too many greetings, hellos and goodbyes.
Too many crossings, too many sighs.
The rush has ceased, the thrill is gone.
Brow quite furrowed, face quite drawn.

Might there be a pothole?
Or perhaps a steep incline?
Hell, I'd even take a head-on,
Just to feel this heart of mine.