Twelve.
How you held my hand and told meHow your father taught you to capture sight
"It's called Latitude"
You explained when I asked about the shadows and light.
I've never told you this but,
When you hold my hand your index finger
presses just a little heavier than the rest.
That's my favorite spot on
my entire body.
Thirteen.
This poem wouldn't exist
if we didn't exist
and isn't that a poem enough?