I reach out from the dark for a healing hand,

and he hobbles over, arm in sling, gin in hand.

I attempt courtesies with a cigarette in my mouth

before he cuts me off: "Don't talk to me. Eat this,"

and places a xanax on my tongue.

I taste his kind fingers - he hands me glass of water

"Drink all of it, all of it, all of it,"

and I do.

He retrieves his cigarettes from inside and

while he is away I shed secret tears in honor of his beauty

and love for me. I tell him of my night terrors,

and he lightly suggests a change in circumstance.

He sits on a bucket in the dirt next to me, puts his hand on my knee -

"You and your life are beautiful, you shouldn't have to feel this way."

I rub my solar plexus and look at the hair on his legs.

"I love you, Dave."

"I love you, Q. That's why I do things for you.

Not because you need me, but because I want to."