Pre-paresthesia
Your cursive, still messy,
still dancing
threatens
to pirouette
from the page
past my eyelids
down my collarbone
Your right foot,
a decade earlier,
across the room
propped up
on the drafting table,
toes tapping
a song
in the air
I tilted my head
at the way you held your pen—
almost backward
outlines, scrawls
sent last week
I still don’t
understand them
