You are a cacophony in my head.
I know you better than the wrinkles in your sheets,
you’re an algorithm I’ve had tattooed to my palm,
you’re a terror with a whiskey glass, you’re a monster
with hypnotic talents.
I once told you that fingerprints are labyrinths to the soul.
Later, I caught you pulling prints off tumblers, holding them
up to the afternoon light pooling in the windows, tracing the pattern
into your sketchbook.