I tell you every morning.

I’ve told you a thousand times. In the distant buzz of your alarm clock when you’re half asleep. When you try so hard to go back to wherever sleep took you.

Maybe you were with me.

I fall down the drain when you wash off yesterday. I hide in your pockets that hold your keys. Swinging from your fingerprints that you leave on every inch of every single place you’ve ever been.

Do you ever look down at your hands and see yourself? You used to tell me if I thought about something long enough the lines in my hands would spell it out. I believe you now. Because my hands talk me to sleep. And they tell me all about you. Almost as if they’re your hands.

Otherwise, how would they know so much?

And I think if I hold yours long enough we could exchange stories. Right up my fingers and across your wrists and up your arms. I’d hold my hands on your face and I’d feel everything you have. Every memory, every thought, every feeling. Every good thing, every bad thing, every single everything until I’ve collected enough. Virtual ticket stubs, until my scrapbook is full and you’re on every page. 

You’re on every page.

I’d show you but you’re too far away. 

I’m afraid my hands tell too many stories with your name in it. Like they want to wake me up.

Or maybe it’s you that’s still sleeping. 

So I’ll hide under my sleeves and behind finger-less gloves. So my hands can still catch everyone’s stories but keep them safe. My palms facing up to catch whatever the constellations decide to send my way. 

I’m waiting for them to tell me the story of us.

That’s definitely something I’d look up for.