I look at it as you lay here
You arm twisted uncomfortably behind your head
You face away
Like you often do now
I wonder if anyone has ever examined your hands this closely
Maybe not even you
I’m with you
Every second is pounding around us
I don’t know where you are
I’m lost in the creases of your hand
You are faced away
Your fingers move as you breathe
The small sore on your finger
“Does it hurt?”
You don’t know what I’m talking about
I don’t explain
There’s a bit of puffy red around it
I have always admired
How often you wash your hands
And yet, a small infection is here
To spite you
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