⌘ Palette

Last night before sleep, she drew pictures on my back with her fingers, a test of my spacial recognition, my ability to form a horse, a sun, a sailboat, from the movement of her fingertip traces against my skin, to see it take shape in my mind’s eye, invisible palette, the curvature of my back competing with her delicate design of flower, fish, smile, and I cannot guess, cannot translate the trace to shape, each time, she erases, whole palm swipes in the dark, tries again, rabbit, snail, and I am the worst at this game, because just being touched by the fingertip of an artist, just having my skin rise to meet her, all I can picture in these traces is Heaven, Heaven, Heaven.