There is an errant sunbeam that lets me count
the hair on your arm. I want to count the words
that are left before should and have to. It is a
way of impressing the present into some future.

I pull a fuzz from your coat sleeve, my hand
trails down the wool until the hard domes of
buttons, a warning. I stop for your fingers, 
pressing each one briefly, so they are noticed.

I smile into the absence, your eyes smudge
through the sweep of your hair. I pretend the
number of footsteps away equals the number back.

I count the raindrops enough to know it is
raining. The hours shift into shadow, unless they
have given up. Even a blank stare renders numbers.
Nothing never adds up to nothing.

.