i'm not paying those fines again .

I roll over to 8:30. To 8:45. To 9:29. T0 9:50. I shoot out of bed. Eyes barely open and all. I’m hot. The velor side of the comforter against my body for something like four hours. I shoot up and onto the floor. I pull my tank top down. Yesterday’s bra on the bed post. I strap the back in the front. I twist around. I pull up. I pull up. I put on my jeans. I put on my plaid flannel shirt. I pick up the two books from the window sill. I toy with the idea of running out with a flat afro. I use the skinny end of my rat tail comb and pick my hair out a bit. I’m out in less than a minute. 9:51. The elevator is making “I’m close” sounds so I run. I get to the elevator, on the 16; I make it just as it wants to be on the 14^th, so much so it didn’t even light. It lit with the speed of light than unlit and I didn’t catch the light. 9:52. 9:53? Out and walking. I think about all those people I’ve seen run, this is totally acceptable. I start to run again. I think “Well I don’t even run and I wanted to this year.” I run, in flip flops, until there are more people on the other end of this corner. Many of them don’t know me as the runner. I think one guy maybe saw how I changed states. I decide, “Hey, he saw this thing now.” 9:54. down those Low Library steps. Fast. I’m talking I hardly remember it happening. But I do remember feeling like my calluses were splitting on the balls of my feet. 9:55. 9:55. That walkway just before Butler. 9:55. Tap the black rectangle. 9:55. Two books 9:56. I’m not paying $2 for books I didn’t even finishing reading last night. There’s this one thing I thought at 9:54, I think. At some point, between the steps and the woman that said “Excuse me,” while we were like 2 feet from each other because she underestimated my speed and our ability not to knock into each other, I think “At some point, this has to mean more than I’m not asleep anymore. It has to mean more than I’m just out of my bed.”  So when I walk out of the reserves room, I make it the length of my body and half before I reach out my right hand for the floor.  I sit on the floor, knees at chest level. Me looking up, towards something insignificant. I think, at some point, this has to mean more  than I made it to the Reserves desk, more than I got an early start and I like early starts than “Hey, I should really start running. That would be cool.” It has to mean that I’m going to meet him. Even without brushing my teeth. It has to mean when I’m typing this story he’s not too far away. It has to mean, that I can type “Hello” to him for lack of date with Colgate at 9:51. I miss him. I miss the last time I wrote the man with no face, no skin, no wrapping me around me this morning. I haven’t felt close to him in so long. But I want to. At some point, I want.