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.