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.

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “Fingertips

  1. As I read this, I could feel wall too. Very nice!

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