My hands are ******
from raking the needles out of the hay,
but I found you
(although you were a little damaged)

My mind is a flypaper,
catching the sand
that you rub from your eyes
(your self discovery carves a valley in me)

And its OK for you to
let your snot bubbles
pop on my shirt
(I haven’t washed it in a few days anyways)

I don’t mind if you are vulnerable,
your openness is fresh air
my own tar soaked lungs are envious
(They ****** my words into criminals)

My arms are like old covered wagons
Slapping their rusted skeletons
Left to dry in a mountain’s pass
(but they will still give you shelter if you happen to get lost)