Why don't you touch me where I'm rusty / let me stain your hands

Backwoods and dirt, my fingernails bitten and tangled with the weeds that scraped over your mouth. We fought for words and tangoed with illusion; reality was a smeared landscape that trailed us for miles through the twists and curls of state by state, landmark by escaping fuel. We had a thread of dignity left over from months ago. A notion of how it was and what it could be but we couldn't stand together, alone, in What It Is. And I fought you, line against rhythm, joke butting up against pretense. My knuckles skinned to misery and blood-sweat rimmed my clavicles. I busted through a memory of What I Wanted This To Be; my teeth were bared and my ribs cracked open to reveal an unfurling knot holding my heart inside my chest. Together, alone, we sat mesmerized by the shredding reeds and split-end hemp fibers. You smoked my danger, my energy, my last wit. In the glow of your midday high, you told me you loved me and I whispered that I don't.