My hands on hard wood
on soft skin,
on your eyelids
as at three in the morning I put you to bed.
You are drunk and I am on acid.
The whole room is wheeling and the wallpaper peels itself,
I am sad and scared,
and the picture of you lying comfortably
Your hand in my hand
You head full of warm wine
Makes me feel small and alone
I am always caught rebuilding what you knock down
But you have a matches in your hands
and I am the carpinter
Before you fell asleep you looked at me and asked,
"Did you see how he kissed me?"
I wanted to ask you back,
"Did he walk you home, did he peel the clothes from your body?
Did he pull your blankets to your chin
and put a needle on the record?
Did he walk back to his friends alone, with car alarms screeming banshees and concrete littered with dirt and teethandorangepeels and my skin and facehaspores that arerough and large like orangepeels and did he put you in bed?
Where is my hand to hold?
Where is my carpinter
I hope one day I allow myself to fall apart
and I hope someone cares to nail me back together.
Sand down my splinters
and run their fingertips along my forearms
If I tipped over on the street, I don't believe I would wake up at home.
If I eyes grew like saucers and my head filled with echos
I still would walk home alone.