the half finished bottle of wine, the smell of your cigarettes in my hair, the sleeping couch

She drew arrows on paper
Thin lines and angles
Head to hand, table to elbow
A neat triangle

The strums of his guitar
fall onto his lap

Trickle down my lobes
a steady dripping tap

it’s 2pm PST
my PTSD is eating me
ring finger on control key
my poor and lonely body

I run to you
your rhythm, your beat

for a moment they're mine
and we breathe together,
breathe

I run to you
your hunger, your need

for a moment they're mine
and we cleave together,
cleave

I run to you
your sweet-wet, your greed

for a moment they're mine
and we feed together,
feed