I think of my hands as a tofu-press,
and dig into your skin a smidge harder
than I should – it quickly reddens
to the size and shape of a
cherry-tomato, before
simmering away into silence.
I’m sorry,
at times I think of my existence
being as small as to fit on
the head of a pin –
I know no other way to
ascertain the fact that
I’m alive except
through you.
