[Verse 1]
Tuesday night I crossed the line, thirty-one flat,
knees are shaking, lungs on fire, still I clock that—
"not bad, but not great," so I'm already plotting
sub-thirty for June, new shoes, I start the squatting.
Medal's still warm on the fridge, barely had a minute,
phone's already buzzing with a harder goal within it.
Didn't drink the water, didn't say "well done,"
just erased the target and hung up a tougher one.
Same thing happened with the raise, the grade, the stair-climb score—
every summit's just the lobby to a higher floor.
[Chorus]
I touch the line and watch it wander off again,
always one more inch of hunger past the win.
Somebody tell my shoes to quit, we only just got here—
the goalpost's on wheels and I'm the one who steers.
[Verse 2]
So Thursday night, before I draft the next big climb,
I sit with cooling tea and rewind the day in my mind,
type out what actually happened, not what I wish I did,
and the recap reads it back to me, calm, like a patient kid:
"You ran, you stretched, you called your mom, you slept at ten,"
and the bar comes down out of the rafters, back to where it should've been.
Not every day's a record, not every mile's a leap,
some days the win is quieter, some days the win is sleep.
Before I raise it higher, I let tonight be seen—
turns out "enough" was a finish line I'd never let myself mean.
[Verse 3]
My nephew crossed his first 5K, grin wide as the sky,
I watched him check his splits before the sweat had time to dry.
Eight years old and already asking "what's the next one, when?"
and I saw myself at every age, over and over again.
I almost handed him a watch to track the miles he'd gain,
caught myself, knelt down instead, said "how'd that feel, explain."
He just laughed and said "like flying," no number on his tongue—
I used to know that feeling, back before the chase begun.
Maybe teaching him to rest is steeper than the hill,
maybe I'm the student here, maybe I always will.
[Bridge]
The goalposts don't stop moving, that's just how the wanting works,
I'll still staple up tougher numbers, still feel that old familiar jerk.
But here's a word for chasing something that recedes the more you near—
asymptote: a line you approach, never touching, year to year.
I'm learning to sit closer, even knowing I won't land,
call it close enough for Tuesday, set the ruler down, understand.
[Chorus]
I touch the line and watch it wander off again,
always one more inch of hunger past the win.
Somebody tell my shoes to quit, we only just got here—
the goalpost's on wheels and I'm the one who steers.
[Chorus]
I touch the line and watch it wander off again,
always one more inch of hunger past the win.
Somebody tell my shoes to quit, we only just got here—
the goalpost's on wheels and I'm the one who steers.
[Outro]
Maybe the line don't move at all—
maybe it's just me, running faster, learning how to fall
back into the moment, back into tonight,
calling this one good enough, and turning off the light.