Published in Bath Spa Anthology 2008.
You slept, peaceful, after our last night.
Your hand open, uncovered against the sheets –
You offer me your world, asleep.
I trace your finger like a map,
dip into each trough and peak,
as if to find something I had lost
in the eddies of your prints.
Deep ravines trickle like streams,
I follow them to the edges of your fingers –
white-tipped and cold.
I hold them, all arches and whorls –
A labyrinth of curls trapping my gaze.
Then I sit for a while and try to find
my way to the centre
but it’s impossible to make out the lines.
I rub your hands as if my scent were an ink
and I could follow your prints back home.
But I turn to leave, and like the ripples
on your fingers, we will grow apart.
The taxi hums outside the door.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.