Sometimes I curl myself in a ball under blankets & wrap my hands around my own head, & after a while I lose track of where my fingers are & my sensations of touch, making it feel like I’m cradling your head, not mine,
With hands that sometimes feel like they’re not mine, but yours,
Caressing every curve, strand, groove, fold & flesh in an interwoven web of mixed bodily identities,
And then I wonder whose hand now lies on my head or whose hair these hands are curling into knots,
Or whose tears run down these naked fingers.