I write you upon palms upturned, the
lines building a network, the scratches a map
you will spend years tracing your fingers across.
When you hold her hand, read the messages
I have left behind for you. Morse code slipped
between sweaty fingers – every squeeze
a dot, every adjustment a dash.
Our palms still remember the poetry we shared
between them – the first line written on an october
evening, script penned between tentative scribbles.
When I walk in cities of strangers, I find myself
reaching amongst them, a word hidden among
every handshake, hoping that the imprints I leave
will once again be recognised by your foraging hands