the sore on your finger

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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