On nights when I can’t sleep
I take a tiny piece of myself
and turn it inside out.
I peer closely at what
lays within there, just right out of view.
And when my pinky finger’s
cuticle reveals my past life’s journey,
I close my eyes and watch those
memories play out along their lines.
I traveled to China,
to Japan, to islands unnamed
in shallow seas.
I wore a hat and scarf
at all times and drank
tequila from a tray.
I raced myself on the beaches
and swam inward, with the current.
I turned to tell you that I love you
but was by then alone of course.
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