i sometimes wonder why he still crosses my mind
why he still pulls on my tear ducts
when i never loved him
maybe because he touched me first
but he never mattered
his fingers only touched my body
and those fingerprints will fade with time
i can keep trying to wash them off
what really worries me
because your fingerprints
seem to be stabbed
all over my heart
Your fingerprints are embossed on my heart
Forever to be known to my soul
Your insignia, your mark, is placed in art
Never to tarnish or grow old
A slightly raised indention of your spirit
Your mark upon my heart
Emblazoned by the hand of love
A masterpiece of art
My heart will always bear your prints
As a reminder of what’s true
The place you’ve left your mark of love
Belongs only to you
My fingerprints tell a story
on occasion I'll glance down at them
Careful yet unobtrusive rings of life
Much like the tree that grew in the yard
of my childhood home.
Tonight these circles within circles
trace the outline of your body.
Your hip bones.
Every muscle tense and then relaxes
under the strength of my extremities
I'm horrible at saying goodbye
I'd much rather lie here and
outline your body for you.
My fingers the chalk outline at a crime scene
Fugitives are always careful about fingerprints.
They're easily picked up by white dust
and foreign gloved hands
But this time, I'll leave my ringed prints behind
I want them to know I knew you.
I've thought about a lot this week
I'll write it down before I sleep
The words that I'm too shy to speak
While you and I are lying face to face.
I'm too shy to unhinge my jaw
And let the syllables freely fall
I'll lie awake and write it all
So maybe you can see.
People leave fingerprints on our soul
After the curtain's closed and they've played their role
But they also leave us with a gaping hole
That fingerprints won't fill.
But you were the one to make all the difference
And understand the purple scars on my wrists
Some people wrap our souls in their fists
And refuse to ever let it go.
A warm hand pressed up against cool glass
Making a hot handprint appear.
The maker of the print lifted their hand
To study the unique swirls and whirls they left.
There is no pattern to the lines that created the handprint.
No precise angle of arches,
Nor perfect precision of patterns.
The transparent window displayed the differences,
Unique to only one person.
Sculpted at birth and remodeled over the years.
Recoding every hardship experienced by the hands.
Each line, arch and swirl different from one another,
All part of a life.
Each hand telling a different story,
Each story created by a different hand.