My hands have many relationships,

and a complicated love triangle

between the backspace

and the rest of the keyboard.

Fingertips go back again

and again to the backspace

to erase the mistakes 

of the rest of the keys.

He is the Mr. Fix-it

to her wordbeat swoon.

The keyboard writes my hands 

love sonnets and epic happy endings,

but she keeps returning to the backspace

to mend every red squiggle or blue mark cracks

of their endeavors.

The interface doesn’t give up

and keeps delivering my palms volumes of ideas

in the hopes that one day 

my hands they don’t linger 

at the delete button dip all night long.


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