I miss the feeling
of the way people fee.
I miss thinking about
holding hands.
Big hands,
Strong hands.
Hard hands.
Like metal and bone,
that crack adn slide at joints,
Where bone meets bone,
and your hand meets my hand.

You smell like beer and leather,
and gasoline.
You smell lonely and forgotten,
like me.
The way you stare at me,
as if I smelled like scented candles.

I want to talk to you,
as if we were made of
can-openers.
Spilling our secrets like
tomatoes into the
white cotton sheets
of our pot.
I want our past-tenses
to cry from lonliness, if noly to make us realize what
together is.
Together is the emptiness in you
that I want to be able
to fill, just so you have
a reason for me to stay.

I want to love you as
if we were matches floating in a cup of water,
made salty by
tears we don't need anymore.
Teears tath your hands, big hands, strong hands, hard hands,
can hide, disguise, and rub away with
their thumbs.
Hands hardened by fists in cages and holding on
to handle bars, but
softened by my tears,
on my cheeks.
Cheeks which I know you can only love.
And your love of my cheeks
is the only love.