Peach-tree face, soft, fuzzed,
it sticks to your palms with glowing patches of flush-
You move your thumbs in a circular motion,
Who you are trying to sooth is an open question.
A silent hope.

Shards of blue grass slice your knees, the spilled gin pools and drips,
The whole house smelling like the back of his throat,
The room chewed up, scratched and overturned.

A wrinkled shirt needs help being tucked in, smoothed over delicate skin.
Fingers like branches twisting around your waist,
Grasping at your belt loops, a plea
You've grafted yourselves together, into something new.

And it hurts to stand now, sliced and bruised.
But you both must go,
Wipe off your peach-tree faces, ripened by the summer sun,
And climb through the open window.