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