It usually starts in the morning. The lights from the fluorescent bulbs flicker, It starts in the morning, when the pattering of feet hit the tile. In and out, in and out, in and out of rhythm; like rain. It starts in the morning when everything is without purpose; before purpose turns into the motivation that always seems to end in dissatisfaction. It’s always these moments do I see him. I doubt I love him. I doubt I’ve ever loved anyone. Does he see me? Is he here? Or am I so fixated I’m starting to disassociate? He has to know by the way I look at him.
Opportunity and the excitement of what’s forbidden must excite. It must be. I see him every day “by chance”. I see him every day. We watch each other in perspective views and savor the small bites of morbidness through the glances we steal at each other. With each breath he takes the coldness, the lighting, the pattering. It all just seems to fall back into the stillness of the rain. All I can feel is the rain. All I feel are the beads of sweat tickling the hair on my hands just as freely as the embers from house fires tickle the air. The way he looks at me so smooth. His eyes are the blades cutting into me. Into those smaller combustible consumable pieces. I’m engulfed by my own flame. Only two utterances, only with two words "Good Morning". i'm stolen.