There are no foxes here. Too deep in the city I guess.
There were foxes below the river, at night I'd follow them home. And crows in the day, blue sky over bare brick and concrete estates. I miss the crows, and lazy mornings of sunshine. The last room at the top of the stairs, my gods watching from the window. I miss the smell of smoke and voices from downstairs late at night.
Getting to the shower before everyone else wakes up. Scattered glasses and ashtrays. Broken kettle. I miss doing the dishes in the morning light, watching the crows, and the concrete, and the sun in the courtyard. Watching him. Cigarette and tea, smoking on the balcony, looking out. Sun in stormy eyes. Our silent intimacy and running water on my hands.
Leaning into his jacket, I try to learn the pattern of his scent. Cheap deodorant, and cigarettes, and him underneath. I linger, closed eyes, let it float through me, sink in. I'll go soon. Would I recognise? Would I find it again?
There are no foxes here. Buildings and cars and people, and all the noise and smells of humanity. Running streets and lights. I get lost in the crowds, forgetting who and where I am. It's easier here, to let go of myself. Just consciousness and flow. Rush-hour darkness at the bus stop, surrounded by the relentless life of the city. Cold wind of early autumn.
I'm part of them, mechanical and pulsating, blending in. But so far away. Closed for now. Delayed sensations and headphones in my ears. Keep the noise out. Keeping the world out and looking in. Not looking. Numbed. Close my eyes and feel the music slowly bleeding out my heart.
I wake up, where's all the blood going? Down my thighs, dripping, and into the floor. I'm leaving bloodstains on the bus seat. Whispers and eyes down, the vibrating sound of the engine, everyone's so close but not touching. My heart's lighter now. Drained. You shouldn't stay in the old blood.
There are no foxes here, but something else. Something new. It's bigger, stronger than the others. It gave no warning. I catch glimpses of it, fragments and dreams. Feelings. A flash of golden fur. It's still hiding, waiting. I feel its presence, though, its warmth, its deep breathing. Predators always know how to bide their time. How the hunt can't be rushed.
I can't see it yet but I know its there, and it's hungry. And I think it knows.
