You stumble home at quarter past three in the morning, tangled in a haze of vodka and smoke. I can smell someone else's skin on yours, clinging there like an old and worn t-shirt. Slowly, I will take your hand and lead you up the stairs where you fall into bed, mumbling incoherently. I will tuck secrets away beneath your knees, in the crooks of your elbows like I used to. I'll whisper my sins into your hair and you'll turn and tell me it's all right. We'll talk about what we'll do tomorrow, how you bought cake mix and cinnamon. I'll nod, press my head into the sharp angle between your neck and shoulders, curl into your body like wispy smoke searching for an escape. You'll tell me it's all right again, your voice blurred with alcohol and sleep, before you press a soft kiss to my forehead and trace the bare skin of my arms with your callused fingertips. It's all right, you'll say, I've got you. I've got you.

You've got me.