lemons on paper cuts

I run my fingers through your hair, skin cells gathering like evidence underneath my nails as I scrape.
I know my lines, you like hearing them, but hesitant explorers miss contours, failing topography.
The indentations above my hips are freshly paved highways, begging for cars to hug turns.
My eyes, stretches of green lights, are a road out past that I’ve taken more than once.
Time is thick like molasses but not as sweet.
Every second drags lakes for missing bodies
and I miss some body.
I feel you, like music playing can creep into your dreams.
I’m not back here until you jolt me awake,
lemons on paper cuts, every time.