A friend once told me
  “Don’t lean on people, they always move and you’ll fall.”
    But what if?

What if I leaned with a knife in my ribs
  Just to keep it straight?
What if their shoulder was made of plastic,
  And I liked the noise it impregnated me with?
What if falling was softer than standing still,
  And comfort was found in bruises?
What if all I ever wanted
  Was someone to move?
  But toward me, not away?

First comes excitement
then, insidiously
disillusion settles in

Her love was a voice
on the weekends
a phone call
a promise
a breath between meetings

We were raised
by routine hands

Teachers
Father
Babysitters

Borrowing time
And taking turns  
As mother figures