i can feel it.

we were alone when we went into the city. it was a little different than you had pictured it, but i told you there was no point in minding too much.
you know how these things go. and besides, we had all been together when we left. me with my broke down sneakers, and the pants with the patches on the knees and the old hoodie. some kid left over and ready for a fight. you with the sweater he gave you. our eyes were black from crying and exhaustion and the overwhelming sensation of enthusiasm.

“there are more of us out there,” you told me, pointing wildly as we slouched down st. cats. “i can feel it.”
i can feel it.
i put my hand over my heart, over my eyes, over my mouth and i can feel it.
this lovely grown up club for two that we’ve established, and i can feel it like the freight trains and free rides we’ve long for, thundering through my body and coming out of my chest.
promises.
tires.
tracks.
whatever.
run down soles of over priced badly made shoes.
whatever.
thumb holes coated in grime and snot.
whatever.
a whole lot of whatever and a whole lot of no more biding time as something pulls our bodies forward, a coffee and fuck off fueled exodus.

i can eat later.
i can sleep when i am dead.
i can sit up reading for days.
i can find these other bodies. i can make sense of these other maps that lead us back to each other and lead me right to you, hand in hand, the same wild eyes face.
i can feel it.