Dirt

When you came in this morning,

dirt clinging to

the brim of your hat,

I reached up automatically and touched the brim of my own.

My hand was clean when I pulled it away,

pink and uncalloused and shocking in its sudden unfamiliarity.

.

.

When you came in this morning,

dirt clinging to

the creases of your hands,

the hairs on your arms,

mud caked on

the knees of your jeans,

I felt it, the way it crackles when you move,

leaving behind a trail of dust like bread crumbs to help you

find your way home.

.

.

I know I

repeat myself

a lot,

grasping desperately for

patterns in static,

but there are still weeds to be pulled,

so I’ll keep

digging, mixing metaphors and jumbling similes, until I can

recognize my own two hands,

dirty or clean.

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