Your socks. Your dirty balled up socks across the floor,
one in and one out of your scuffed brown shoes
and the long sharp nail of your big toe
making a hole in the leather.
The sounds of you, scratching scaly skin,
pulling and picking at each offending toe nail,
sharpening round edges into razors that rake my thigh
in the night. In the violet light of the night across your face
the stiff lashes of your sleeping eyes quiver slightly
and rest and quake again at the touch
of my hand, a moth’s soft embrace.
These things sink roots in my memory,
they scratch and claw deep inside my skin
and speak of things I love and hate and cannot live without.