Each morning I stand before my full-length
mirror, study my naked skin covered
by your fingerprints, recall gentle strength
in their impressions, how you as lover
alone can cleave them, each shaped like a heart.
These friction ridges of your fingertips,
these engrained tattoos of grace you impart
through passion and care, curve like smiling lips,
or fertile rows of tear trails, mystic maze
of memory inviting my clear eyes
to travel their minute paths, stop and gaze
at their collection, how they fall and rise
throughout me. I sigh, trace their endless rims
of secrets, know only I can see them.
Roger Armbrust
November 15, 2009
