Little King

I would gladly sit on the phone and talk you through this. I'd sit there all night, out in the hallway so my roommates can sleep. This apartment is built like a hotel, all the doors pointing inward to central hallways, nothing opens up to the outside. But I'd sit on the stained and dingy carpet and tolerate the stares of yappy dogs being taken out for late night walks, if it made you feel better.
You'd do the same for me, and have.
It hurts to know you're so far away and that you should be in bed, sleeping it off, not still up talking about tombstone faces. You should be asleep, not on the verge of quiet tears because while 1 am isn't late for me, I always know the time back home.
You sound like nothing so much as a scared child and you bring to mind pictures of a lost pup and I wanna hold on to you so nothing bad can happen and nothing else can scare you because who are you to be so afraid of death? I should be the worst thing that crosses your mind.
And I'm stunned at how these things have changed. My concern for you is less of a lovers worry, becoming something stunningly more maternal. And I think I wanna care for you, rather than about you, because it's easy, though your thoughts become increasingly more complex and dark. And I hope that's not my fault. And I know that's cutting myself too much credit. But, you're drunk and you're afraid of death and 'the storms' and of ending up alone, but you should know that that's not possible. People like you don't end up alone, not on the outside anyway.
You talked about how you feel like a dead animal. How your mouth hangs open like a roadkill carcass, teeth exposed and gums inching back into your head. Such beautifully vulgar imagery I'd like to steal and call my own. But through the darkness of your unintentioned poetry I imagine I can hear tears sliding down your summer reddened skin and I picture the two of us as we are now, sepearte hearts and lives, a love of special friendship. I picture us in your darkened room, I sit on your bed and you kneel on the floor, head resting on my knees. And your mouth may hang open like an opossum or dead coyote but I smooth back your hair and you remember where you are and what future you belong to.