Your fingertips are on my mind,
pulling up from the roots into each strand of hair.
It’s wet,
and my hair is dark with molecules.
I can’t feel the tip
or inside of my nose.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just better that way.
If no one guesses
or hopes for anything,
then there is no reason to live anymore and there is no reason to do anything and there is no reason to be happy and there is no reason to lie and there is no reason to tell the truth.