Hands and feet, and knees and elbows.
 The alienated intimacy of the A Train at rush hour.
 When skin meets skin,

does it pull something away?
did I take a part of you with me?
do you carry me on your shoulder?

Are you here with me,
 a fragment of yourself —
 the self that existed as a body
 in that one sliver of space and time?
 Because it was there in that imperceptible moment
 that our granular cells thrashed
 against each other
 like sand heaved up by an undercurrent swell
 and passed from wave to wave.

Hand to hand,
 body to body,
 sea to sea,
 our cells, our sands, our moments
 all leave scuffs on each other’s sleeves.
 My sand is red, yours blue, his green, hers purple,
 except they’re not red
 or blue, or green, or purple —
 they’re each a shade that’s
 distinctly one’s own,
 a theoretical hue that lies
 in the infinitude between RGB codes,
 not a single one just like it.

We commute from point A to point B in a sandbox.
 The colored sands — her sands, your sands —
 all brushing and crashing against one another,
 exchanging and collecting,
 limbs
 that collide and collide again
 until you finally hit your stop,
 and you flood out into the streets with
 the wet heat of July in New York on your neck,
 and you walk and dilate
 at the thought of taking your shoes off,
 and all of the moments you
 picked up along the way tickle your feet
 like that time you fucked up
 by wearing your sneakers to the beach
 and regretted it for a week.
 Except you’re not at the beach,
 you’re in alphabet city,
 and when you take off your shoes
 and turn them over,
 they pour out a rainbow