Fingertips

It is with these fingers

That I touch

Each note
Each letter of your skin
With these fingers
And their tips
Cracked
From the pumice and water
That I feel
Each sound
That makes not a wave
Each breathe
That never takes flight
So it is these fingers
And their tips
Rough like language
That leave prints
On black and white key
Leave prints
On what was once mine
But is now
Just an island postcard
And its sex
Paradise lost
Between sheets
Of poetry
Sheets of blank paper
Paradise lost between sheets
It is with these fingers
And their tips
Callused from the stroking
That I feel
Every brick
And stone
Of the roads
I never traveled