Her hands write novels through the skin
of her palms. I am ink and graphite.
Covered with the smudges of her fingertips,
and the cant of her R’s and L’s.

I have lyrics lodged under my nails, and
a meandering thought pressed to the middle
of my back. Meaningless drunken messages
live on my shoulder-blades.

My knuckles and palms are unrecognizable.
They were held and smothered in chapters
and anthologies and I could never bring
myself to wash them of the marks.