Index

Did you know your filed nails trace the thin pink edge of your absent minded lips every time I draw further, your index exhibiting its prime leverage and all I stand to lose

Finger that found the verse, the vein, the small of her back where the page opens— I am trying to remember the order of things: thumb, forefinger, the one we point with when accusing god or pressing the elevator to the floor where she waits. My body is a book mis-shelved. Look me up under longing, see also: hand.