You ball your fists,

teeth clenched.

The orange-glowing young man smiles and waits.

"Well. What do you have to say?"

You start:

"Who ever told you

only the best of the best

were allowed to dream?

Who ever told you

that only gold medals

are why hopes are breathed?

Who ever told you

that to feel really alive, truly,

you had to live somewhere

between dog tired from striving

and deathly paralytic from regret?"

He takes a step back

as the golden chain around his neck

breaks

falls past his feet

the chains scattering into a million tiny dreams.

He inhales, nostalgic for this feeling--

for enjoying what it's like to simply...breathe.

You smile.

"Hey," you say, "wanna race to the pier?"

Freedom in his features,

lightness in his breaths.

"Winner buys the ice cream."

"Loser pays the tip!"

Peels of laughter and joy--

you both make a run for it.