Dragon Poppy Splinters

He was pacing down the alley. The sound of cans slightly rolling on the pavement was his hymn. This was not part of the plan, the sinister in him whispered, putting on the jacket she'd just worn not 2 minutes ago. He shouldn't have initiated the contact. He knew this was going to happen. He knew. The slightest moves of minuscule raw emotions were thoroughly calculated during nights when his lucidity was but a fragment of an untamed mind under the influence of his favorite downer. 

Downer? Yeah right! In fact, he hasn't been, how do they call it?, stoned since his first try some 7 years ago. That familiar feel of the dragon poppy splinters boiling every part of his body. No. But those eyes. They make every known opiate seem like a regular ant bite. Her eyes. 

I can't do this! This was never part of the plan! Then he faltered. 

What originally started as an introverted bet, a passing for boredom, *FvCK!*, a curious case of insanity snowballed into... "I'm fvcked!". He cursed, his 87th since he walked her to the shared apartment she had with the youngest Weaslette, some four minutes ago. 

He thought of doing some more calculation to eradicate this growing how do I call this? Infatuation, he thought, while pausing his pace to welcome the warmth of the first morning light. "You know what I like about sunsets?", he remembered her say not 12 hours ago. "...they always seem to tell me that there's always a sunrise somewhere else". Oh well. He shrugged and continued walking. The platinum strands on his head swaying softly with the zephyr winds. 

His hand fisted inside his jacket. His jacket that somehow still smelled like her. "Infatuation" he scoffed and in that insignificant second... I don't mind her leaving her scent on any of my articles of clothing. In fact, I don't mind at all...

Original post is on my tumblr page. Above post has been edited.