Gate

You walk with your shoulders hunched, feet dragging, every step looks laborious. Your torn backpack draped over one shoulder, jacket wide open. Your combat boots are oversized for your tiny frame. You look towards the ground. Always a little bit off kilter. When you're drunk you don't want to walk. You always want a piggy back. You're small frame feels heavy after a few steps. But I endure. You walk too slow for me.

You always look like you're on a mission. Its funny. You approach so fast always a little out of breath, headphones on, your bag full and securely over you're shoulder. You look strong and driven. You walk faster than me. Its nice to finally fall behind. Our hands fall effortlessly into each others. We take big steps. Try not to be seen.

Tiny point toes boots that clip clop with every step. You look straight ahead, stare me down. I get nervous and look at the ground. Your hips swing and your skirt blows back. You bag is held tightly to your side. To keep the bottles from clinking. You grab my hand and curl up under my shoulder. I like being the taller one. There is an air of magic about you. A confidence that is more intimidating that you know. You always have a cigarette.