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.
Monday, April 2, 2012
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.