Listen. It was about 8 pm last night.
You were lost in some deep philosophical meanderings
creating art with your fingers on me when
I stumbled upon a forgotten scar on your back.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Some surgery scar…” you responded
still distracted by that line that you
were drawing over my lips.
I discovered that my right hand’s index finger fits perfectly in it.
The exact length, depth, breadth.
And even though it means nothing, really, much like this poem
I want you to know that a part of me fits perfectly in you.