Lingering prints left all over my form –

evidence, clues, hallucinatory testimonies

from visitors who departed some time ago

all of which whose names matter no longer –

yet aged deposits of remembered touch

at the angular and sharp cleft of my jaw

inside the tucked, soft flesh of my elbow

below the puckered scar tissue of my knee

within the barely-controlled jungle of my hair,

these locales on the topography of my figure

sing with ever-tarrying illusions of contact

that can never be territory washed anew.

Yet there are sites none could ever lay claim to

locales stubbornly kept secret from

any wayward or welcomed transients

and even from my own consciousness



tangled within the creased folds

hidden away in my skull

exists the doggedly supported notion

that falling in love

is only referred to



as such

because we


strike the ground.

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