I'm at a pay phone,

looking for you in the paper-thin pages,
and it's so ironic.
I spent my last four quarters on narcotics
that I'm too afraid to take,
and I could really use some gum right now
to wedge my jaw open for a while.

The doctors are braiding your biggest bones
back together,
and I'm in the backseat of a stranger's car
trying to weave loops of rainbow-soaked cotton together,
hoping to keep my brain from going
numb like fingers in winter-pelted pools.

Something tells me
if I caught a scent of you,
I would never let go.