The gentle lines of the coarsest neck
Where the vitals fall in line,
Where breath is held so restlessly,
The first sip of chilly wine.
The shaky fingertips that graze,
Calloused, but seeking gospel
Leaving me covered in the words of
Your author and your novel.
Knobby knees that knock when
Worry scurries through your blood.
That hallow place behind
Where no one thinks to touch.
The portion of your foot that feels
The extremity of the ground.
How fast you're going will always tell
How long you stick around.
(Our souls are where we find them.)