Can't you see my hands right now? With veins like little mountain ranges, all rolling, and tolling for you. All sweat beads forming and falling from olive knuckles. Wedding rings. And electric blue varnish resting high on cuticle beds. Beds, for one thing, were never our strong suit. We just fell in squares where there was room. In stranger's sheets, my palms rolled beneath your back, and through your neck. Stuck on swiveled wrists, I taught myself a new vocabulary for all things shadows, particularly You.
And you should see my hands right now. And you should forget the rest.