I am taking forever to measure the distance
between your fingers; counting miles
that stretch across the peaks
and valleys,
the crooks and scratches on the
sea of life that is
your fingers.

I’ve known a few things:
the twists and turns, the intricate
engraved on your tips, the little
spaces where your stories dwell—
the telltale of
every subtle touches.

You’ve let out more from your tips
than you ever did from your lips.

I am dying to know, though,
the secrets you kept
between your fingers:
everything that had tangled
and interlocked in the deepest
of spaces.

“This is where I keep things
that I don’t let out,” you once
said, and of course I was never let

But you let me measure the distance
between your fingers, and
when I get to count the depth
of your abysses,
they were impossibly big,
impossibly deep—

Never in my life had I wanted to lock hands
with someone so badly.

I just want to be another secret,
another inch in your abyss,
but counting distances is the only thing

you let me.