Map

I’m looking at the shape of these words,
trying to find their reason.

Checking for the backstage pass they claimed 

to my inner life.

The one tucked inside my outer life,
an inner-tube of raging desires, inflated
to push against the wall of the racing tyres
they put on me at school.

I’m mixing metaphors like drinks,
listening for the clink of the cube in the dark
so I know when I lift you to my lips,
I’ll drench them with your kiss
before I spill it in your lap.

I’m that kind of chap, the kind that needs a map
to find his way back home
when the day passes and the cars
and the way too many drinks stop adding up.

Thank you for your map.