I’m unusually captivated

By the way the world looks

In the shimmering glare bouncing

Between the passing lights

And my filthy window.

I suppose I could wash it,

Wipe the smeared fingerprints away,

But I can’t bring myself to:

The swirling marks tell stories

That sing to me during long rides

When the car grows so loud

I have to push in earbuds

And hide from their voices.

The smallish hands,

With the long pinkies;

My fingers, my smudges.

And around those,

His hands,

Slender fingers

Wrapped around my own,

Marking the places

Our two persons conjoin.

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