I can hear the pitter patter of your running feet. Up the stairs, and down the hall, I can hear your breath quicken when you rest, I can feel your heart beat against your chest. Slow. And steady. Time lies forgotten on its clock faces, and the minutes expand...your rib cage swells, this moment smells like rain and wet earth. I can taste the smoke inside your mouth, I can feel the man behind the motion. Right here, having you in the ways I want you.

And I want to dig my nails in.

Normal

Life at Number 2

Rent. I'm a day late already, but I soothe myself with the thought that mail doesn't send on sundays. The trip to the wells fargo atm is a short one, only about two miles there and back, so I decide to walk. Wells Fargo, together we'll go far...lalala. Spring feels like summer, and a high of 90 this afternoon accompanies cloudless blue skies and a neighborhood flower bloom ratio that could rival the meticulously maintained botanical gardens for which this city is famous. I walk down Washita Street, it's quickest, cuts through little five and ducks around to Moreland, but it passes your new place. It's strange having you live in the old highschool, which, sparing a grove of bamboo and a line of Inman Park's finest bungalows, is quite literally my backyard, and I pass by keeping my head down, eyes focused on the broken pieces of concrete sidewalk and the soft pat, pat, pat of my feet that I can hear through my headphones. I feel the tension mount till I'm finally around the corner, to safety. It's not that I don't want you to see me, I just don't want you to see me and think I've passed this way hoping to see you. I am content with our interaction of ins and outs, they make sense, barely a ripple and don't make waves. A poster on a passing light post reads: "Please help us bring Molly home!" Under which is a picture of a winding road, and in smaller print, "Lost 18ft python." I realize it's not a winding road, but a very large snake. Peaches. Truthfully, this neighborhood was in need of a dangerous nocturnal predator, it's beady, heat seeking eyes narrowed on a slumbering hobo, death served on the surprising platter of asphyxiation, bravo snake, bravo.
On my way back I pass the small group of hippies that like to camp out behind Savage Pizza on Colquit. Last week they complimented my dog's sharp looks, and today they all have puppies. Now these aren't the "peace and love" hippies of the past, nor are they the tie-dyed, organically bejeweled trust-fund kids of today. This particular band appears to be a cross between 80's punk rock and the odd Caucasian rasta culture that's emerged recently. Think dirty heads of dreads, some decorated with feathers and beads, dressed in black rags from somewhere or other. One asks to pet my dog and I say sure. Behind him is a tiny black puppy, six weeks old, brand new. I don't touch it, and can't help thinking rather pridefully, "well at least my dog is up to date on his shots!" As I leave I'm pretty sure the guy asks me if I've ever wanted to huff paint, but I can't be positive.