she is the blood in my fingertips
when i dance,
a pulsing presumption that once
these tumid extremities grazed
over every inch of her skin.
when i move in space –
the air against my palm, the memory
of her colourless hair pushing my fingers back gently,
i wish they might remember the way
her eyes leaked the past
into s p a c e s b et we e n,
sometimes i pretend that i never
did let them slip past my grasp,
sometimes my swollen fingers
(the state of my self-centred mind)
wish that she might pour pain from half-
closed wounds again,
sometimes i wish the blood in my fingertips
would cease its strive to leave my flesh,
would like to stay as much as i need it to.
but tonight, i prick a million tiny holes in my fingers.
eyes shriek of trypophobia; nostalgia drains itself.