As strangers pass by, I tend
to look at their wrists for evidence or something,
some name, some other person, something
that tells me they feel —

once upon a time,
I only knew what I felt, what I cared for, if
it was engraved onto my skin.

I heard women talk about the stars being aligned
and in my head amalgamated the image of
internal wires
coiling around each other,
being inserted in one another so
feeling exhales on the skin, the nerves spark.