I could scrub my soul
But I can’t scrub time clean
Of your presence
Just like a canvass
Soaking up life giving paint
Your sweep touch and feather caress
The motions effortlessly relived
By my treacherous hair covered skin
The invincible hairs move at their will
Showing at my weakest the indents you left on my skin like tattoos
Waiting for you to place your hands where they belong.
Rendered for the past Writing 201: Poetry assignment FINGERS.