Thursday, 2 December 2010

Hands touching hands, knuckles protrude, my wrist is smaller than yours, your fingers longer.

Lined and crisp elbows fold up to deep pools, yours full of fluffy dark hair, mine lined with stubble from shaving, and beneath one, the oval cyst that I can move about with my fingers.

The skin on the back of my arms is raised in bumps, dry from scrubbing. Yours are full of ink, ink that will be there until the day you die. Each dot links to another, they form lines and shapes, tessellating across your chest.

Ribs line up, leading down your torso, and mine. Past them is the place where we were once connected to our mothers. Where our smaller, less formed selves linked to another human being, and curled up inside their bodies, we got ready to use ours.

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