There are small imperfections in the way you move.
You have bent elbows that will not straighten, always looking for something to wrap around.
Your fingers will trace, across every line, and every place, but they don’t leave any marks.
There are hiccups in your speech, they leave gaping holes where you thoughts echo for no one to hear.
You step cautiously , your feet not quite hardened. They never seem quite as strong as they need to be to take you where you thing you belong.
Your eyes blink more than mine, releasing images you want left behind.
But your feet will take you where you belong. when you get there you won’t need to blink, you’ll close your eyes. Your thoughts wont echo, they will spill. And when you trace you’ll find the empty space of your bent elbow where only a few inches up there is proof you can’t deny.