On Your Fingertips

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It is easy to forget there is blood beneath your fingertips, until you cut them open. 

Also on the list of things I never think about, because they are so deeply imbedded into my person, I don’t have to:

That morning in Canada next to the river at the base of Whistler when you taught me how to harmonize. 

The smell of my first apartment in Idaho.

Scraping ice of the windshield of my car without gloves. 

The laundry room in the basement of the Hilton. The touch of crisply folded napkins in the color of forest green. 

Bitter hot black tea. 

The rungs of the ladder to your bedroom. 

You playing the piano in the kitchen. 

Driving the 5 in the heat of summer when everything is ashen yellow. 

Ripe peaches. 

The cold wood floors in the middle of the night at the Jefferson house. 

The hot touch pavement of the 15th st. parking lot and the taste of diet peach Snapple iced tea. 

Sleeping in my mothers bed. 

My skylights and the sound of my roommates down stairs. 

The first ride to the watering hole. 

You.