Moose Knuckles

kind of a poem, sort of

sleepless and unable to still my body

I think about your cold hands brushing my legs

i think about fog filled mountains and the comfort of my blanketed backseat 

less painful that my bed

i think about breathing for the first time since i scraped out that lung

i think about soft kisses and sandpaper skin

couches made for two

straining against woven confines 

the futility of these sort of thoughts when i know

theres no pill for this kind of ache and 

you are too far for me to show up at your door

full of pictures that grow more colorful as i indulge them

i wont be getting much sleep tonight