In the place where you sleepwalk,
there are no more footsteps.
The ground is trodden down in spirals
with the imprints of hands that seem drunk.
Sometimes when I’ve been drinking,
my arms slink off of my body
and do things I’d never give them permission to do
if I were sober
and sometimes when I’ve been drinking,
my hands come home after a night of not being mine
and they are covered in mud from the wrist to the fingertips.
It has always secretly bothered and enchanted me
that my sheets smell like wet grass when you fall asleep in my bed.