There are a few fingerprints
Etched upon this heart of mine.
Of those I love.
Of those I’ve loved.
Of those I‘ve been loved by.
Persisting from the basal touch,
Immutable, till this day.
Not propinquity,
Nor time, it seems
Are things which they obey.
Some exist in multitudes.
Some, much more scarcely.
A few, engraved;
Potent, Ingrained.
Crafting a bespoke labyrinth.
Distinctive, each, mutative;
Morphing the shape of my heart.
Impressions indelible;
Impacts ineffable;
Enabling, endowing, en garde.
A scant few I’d have scorched,
But what could lighten the abyss?
In obscurity,
Murky, they remain,
Cimmerian, even eclipsed.
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