You keep referring to the
noise in your head
It’s all collected in the
small concave of
my palm
It must be that you
cried last night,
because between my fingers,
the wind began to howl
What can I do,
you are written on
my epidermis.
Three dark lines that
swim over the same
concave
and some thirty six more
that are light,
like baby’s hair.
I could etch more
lines,
and yet the ones
with your name
would remain.
To tease,
and to comfort. Even burn.
