thought

Oakland.
November 11, 2004

Motorcycles sped by without any riders. I think, maybe, you were steering the van with your feet. We were trying to figure out when we might see each other next.

I have plans Thursday, Friday, and Sunday. But I'm free Saturday. You have plans Thursday, Saturday and Sunday, but you're free Friday.

Oh.

You ask me if I've met someone else.

Underneath the highway, we pulled up to a wall. It was covered with graffiti. Hundreds of barrels stood next to each other making a winding labyrinth of browning metal and paint.

We got out and you were noticed by that dog that doesn't like you. He started making his way over the barrels towards you. You jumped back into the car. Your sister and I started climbing the barrels. To get to the wall. To see what was on the other side. We took off our shoes.

You came out of the van with your arm covered in purple paint. The dog that didn't like you had arrived. You shoved your dripping purple hand into its face and messed up its fur. He nuzzled you once then walked away.

I swung my feet back to this side of the wall to watch you. We really don't have anything in common it seems. I liked that day that we laid on your bed and painted new designs over each other's tattoos.

You noticed me and came closer with your purple paint. You caught my swinging foot and drew your brush along it. When I stepped down off the wall, I left a trail of purple footprints. And when I was standing in front of you, you poured paint on my shoulder. It flowed down my body, all over my dress, underneath my clothes.

You are too young for me. I've never really liked blondes anyway. But I can feel your paint sliding down my stomach. I know you're watching me. I want to kiss you again. So I do.