And when I can’t remember how to tie the knot that started all of this run my fingers like stock cars into wrecks in my hair. I am not afraid of grime but I am so worried when I touch my face. I know my face is not a hospital bed but I can’t sleep well with the smell there. I can’t sleep well anyway. You know I’m not joking with you. You know I will try hard not to break too frequently while you follow me home from the desert, the smell of someone else stuck on the vinyl of the seatbelt. The smell of someone else like a perfume I wear to dream.
