He wraps his hand around the rope
And with the cotton fibers twisting his skin,
He tugs.
The rope budges an inch more to his side,
But like the rookie who scores his first point, he breathes;
The rope unfurling from his grip,
He grabs it again, feet only a centimeter away from the line.
He was never more happier for gravity
As he impresses the soles of his feet into the sand.
His face is scrunched up, sweat is beading down his face,
His hands are stinging from the blood,
Yet he dares not let go.
All that he had been holding in, he lets out when he opens his mouth,
Tugging now with the strength of a dog who feels his owner
Has been threatened.

I lurch forward, my body meeting the sand,
Grains blocking my airway,
Dust blinding my eyes.
He drags me across the line,
My hands brushing it away;
Brushing away the line that defined his victory,
The line which is now gone,
As am I from him.