these knuckles turned white as
ocean caps grabbing your locks
in both scenarios.
flat and precise as a dartboard
aiming for the bullseye.
bullseye, you can always call.
wheat grain hair falls in
your face, i can't brush it away
without fingers
I know you sleep in duck
feathers, and deeply
never thinking of me.
It's half past eight
still awake and wondering
why my knuckles are so white.
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