It is a long distance, from your wrist
to the bend of your elbow.
You roll another whispery fold
of your shirt sleeve.
In some place over your knuckles,
a subcutaneous line pulses
like a super charged expressway.
I track it
till it disappears higher up,
to a warm, dark space
away from your blunt fingertips
to the hollow
where your shirt sleeve lies nestled.
I smell the soap from your shower
And you, my coffee.
And you, my coffee.
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