the friction ridges of a human finger


I play with selfhood
needing no tricks
I’d like to lock palms
just in case
you move
so that the sunlight
outfits us
and years from now
people pedaling past on bikes
peal out pink bubbles
the day it didn’t rain
in East Van
and years from then
those same hands
may remain clenched
throughout the day
while I lay on you
meeting our quiet ends

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