Hungry Hands - The American Scene

You’re calm and cutting

I’m speaking softly in your passenger seat

On the finger points of deceiving, withholding, and the difference between

You crack a window, clear the air, meet quiet words with empty stares

I ask a god I don’t know to get us home before this car explodes

We smoked and burned black

Dripped like wax from the devil’s hands that pooled into something I’m told

resembled dishonesty

And with each word I stacked on top of the last I could feel you pulling so

slow and so steady away from me

Don’t put me away with your crossed out days and filled up spiral notebooks

Carefully placed on shelves in case you should care to take a new look

Your hungry hands held a home over my head, ripped at my clothes,

pushed into bed

We made so many ways to help ourselves forget

We smoked and burned black

Dripped like wax from the devil’s hands that pooled into something I’m told

resembled dishonesty

And with each word I stacked on top of the last I could feel you pulling so

slow and so steady away from me

Don’t be so sure that I’m overlooking details

Don’t be so sure I’ve got nothing left to say