I have a vague memory
of water on glass: a fingertip
gently kissing surface tension, dragging
drops to a reservoir until rivulets
broke free and flowed
down a darkened window to the sill.
Your pale chest is that dark window
when I prod drops left clinging from the shower
across your constellated skin.
My hand is young, your chest
a curious partition
protecting irrigation from a storm.
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