Jolie laide

observant

There are tiny cracks on the back of our hands; my dry knuckles

Markings of time, of existence.

ink from a pen, how’d you get there?

Markings of work, play, or neither -

The deep blue sinks into the fractures,

(spreading, unscripted)  

They make themselves known as they couldn’t be otherwise.

The terrain of my skin redefined momentarily.

Stained, jolie laide, reinvented.