Fingertips

I lost my touch.
And know I say that
in the most literal sense.

Reading the lines of my fingertips,
realizing they are only what a scientist has made of them.
And I won’t stop thinking
because I don’t know how.

Reach out
to finger my way through fog.
Haze.
Haze of all colors,
not just purple.

Fingertips may turn the colors
that classify a rainbow.
But I can’t reflect their identity
the way I want to,
the way one might need me too.

Run around
to escape the overwhelming human presence.
Existence.
Existence of all colors,
not just purple.