i am the smudged phone number on the back of your hand
i am the phone that rings and never leaves a voicemail
i am the one who never requests but always demands
i am building a cross on the hillcrest, and i am the nail
through your palm. there used to exist a requisite
goodnight kiss, they were always goodbye kisses,
when it was the hello that was always the culprit
that incited the riot of hands and mouths that missed
the mark when it came to saying what we really meant
and fingertip to fingertip, we tried to send signals
to each other’s brains that never really got sent
quite the way we wanted, always garbled, and it pulls
at my heart like the static electricity of thunder,
or maybe just hands trying to pull me under.


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