Narcotic Crocs

Bath. Time:12.18 a.m. I watch from the safety of my Starbucks fortress, slightly murky windows due to condensation. I'm strangely intrigued by the homeless man, lying outside in the cold, enclaved grey slot between TK Max and Specsavers. The homeless man, Probably around age 50 something, is wrapped in a tar coloured waist coat that curls around his legs while his bum pushes against it. The absence of clothing around his ankles suggests he is wearing shorts of some kind. My eyes are famished by the lack of colour, until they reach the crocs. No colour describes them, just faded conception mixed with attraction to the objects that surround the ever changing, dotted crocs. They draw me in. I exist on their surface. I have set up, grew up, fucked up and died all on the buzzing material of these ethereal shoes. My mind, arrogantly assuming, jumps to the conclusion that these seductive cocs are made of plastic. I am not in a state to judge. I am sexually attracted to the negative space; the holes that expose flesh. Prickled hair runs through the absese holding spray that floats from the puddles adjacent.I have zoomed in on the crocs and my perception of the world had been consumed by the their attractive glow. All I see is burgundy.  I snap into normality, gasping for air as I break through the layer of my conscience. Bath. Time: 12.18 a.m. I was, over and over, repeating and revising the crocs in all shapes and forms. I had purely become the crocs wrapped around his grubby feet. I, in necessity, no clothes and shaved head, had wrapped myself as a tiny figure around his toes. I had clasped the layers of his skin, the folds on his soles. I had pulled him close to my chest, keeping his feet from touching the flat surface below.