i wanted to write
      you a story about
your hands, your ivory wrists
                                 your fingers around the neck of a bottle
         and you in the pale light of the morning
with laughter spilling
        over your lips
                        (beer spilling
                         over your fingers)
it was never enough

here’s a metaphor:
              you draw the maps and i follow them

scene 1
            act 1
search for me
between the lines and
               all the empty spaces
you are alone on the stage