Poetry therapy

I'm terribly depressed tonight and on a poem rampage. Here's one. I'm going to hate it tomorrow.

Your hands look coarse,
Stop touching rocks;
they look the same when they are hot.
There must be places that you go and don't tell,
Places that are untouched by roads,
But become cities when you go.

Did you remember me when you got there?

No, it's in colors I've never seen.
It must be where you saw
what you were thinking of in the dining room
when I was thinking about
the red coat that you could see.

It must have been a girl with a freckle
above her lip or something.
But not that.

And while you blinked the room was different,
though it looked the same to me.
But I've been here all this year
with a red coat.