I close my eyes as I run my hand
along the off-white wall.
My fingers find patterns,
landscapes lurking in the stucco.
I press my friction ridges hard
into the render continents.
In my mind’s eye I see my soul
extend to my utmost edges,
and I expel a part of me into
the oil and cells the wall keeps.
I would entrust more of myself
if the building would take it:
as I exhale fragments I realize
the building is immaterial.
The truth hits quick, a tremor
traveling from fingertip to core.
I would hand over anything
I possess to leave behind a legacy,
but I only have my fingertips,
my sweat, my residue to offer.