we find ourselves crumpled like paper
my nosebleed acts like glue
you smell and taste like pixie dust
my eyes roll around the room

ascending towards heaven
i grip your ribs like handrails

you stop me short -
'i'm going to...'

and like a napkin under the dinner table
i’m falling off your lap

you'll remember me when you need to clean up
when you need to wipe your hands