You said it was from the cats.
The scab in your nose gave away the cocaine.
You said you're taking a weekend, getting away from the city.
It will call us both back.
Always has, always will.
Not the blood that my nose pumped into your flannel shirt.
Not the tunnel about to form in your face.
I love you in that way that only me and you can love each other. Fifteen? Sixteen? Fuck it. Doesn't matter.
Where's my phone.