because, you know
as I creep up the hard lines
of your palm, I leave behind
a trail of me
and as you squirm,
try to shake me off
I cling on, sticky sweet
gleaming in the glory
of the fading light
you give up, watch
as I make my way
to the tip of your finger
and I think it's done
I've won.
Geetanjali Chitnis writes from Bangalore, India.