i am quite sick of hands touching—
i would think michaelangelo
would have abhorred the replication,
the cheapening of his work as well
the creation of adam,
humanity being god's mirror
reduced to a trinket of some fandom
or the aesthetic of some tumblr textpost

and yet i cannot help but stare at your hands:
desiccated, scaled like reptilian skin, raw at the knuckle seams
how alike have mine become to yours!
lithe and spry and wandering
what if they touched, never to let go?

and yet i cannot help but admire the sound of the tongue
of your forbearers spilling off the tip of yours:
harried and staccato, like a secret meant for god's ears alone
words of reassurance your parents took with them long ago
when they came to this land of opportunity
but is it your history to claim?

and yet i cannot help but inhale the rosy
talcum lining the insides of your knees and elbows:
their scent preserved by sheets of denim and chambray
a sillage sharp and graceful as the blade of an ice skate
contrasting with my medicinal tulsi and camphor
does it not get tiring, being picture-perfect?

and yet i cannot help but consider the light in your eyes:
traveling, like solar photons, from unseen depths to the surface
emerging triumphant from soupy smoldering plasma
a span of eons in a matter of seconds
i know of labyrinths and afterglows
do you know of the war within you?

then again, what is art on chapel ceilings for,
if not for fandom trinkets, for tumblr textposts,
for dry hands that don't quite fit in one another
touching tentatively, a recidivistic hearkening
to the consummation of that original sin?