there are bugs in my eyes and

bacon on my breath.

i fell together,

fell apart,

and now i'm simply falling.

but that's just fine by me,

because, you see,

my knuckles have a horde of scars and scuffs

upon them.

i can scrap, if you so please,

but i would really rather not.

i laid my palms upon a harlot tonight

and found a heart within

her hardened breast.

a beating, bleating little beast,

pleading for the sympathy

found only in a kindred broken smile.

i kept my hands on her

hot and heaving hips,

but my love was not inside my fingers.

it was inside my knees.

the knees on which i kneeled

and spat my silly proclamations.

the knees from which i peeled

my skin and bone

to show a certain someone something special.

something inside of whom i could maybe be.

this sole and certain something

hardened up,

like a harlots hips.

it still heaves and breathes, however...

but in a way that sits upon your chest,

like watching an old dog dying.

i digress...

these hands are only hands,

however torn and crinkled they may be...

but they are, indeed, my own,

and i will lay them down upon

whichever heart

might hold them,

tightly.