Hand to hand to hand to hand.Palms against one another barely—lightly, lithely— and yet with weight, even still.Skin presses skin.Edges are indiscernible. Limits (e)merge,Hand-to-hand: passing as one.Flesh of my flesh?Touch remembered— a felt trace, a sensed mark,an imprint of passed contactheld in malleable duration as if written in wax.This tablet of the palimpsest pastis overwritten and overfilled.The letters cannot be made outone from the other.Time compressesinto a yellow density of signsopaque until touch warms the marksand they run together, liquid and clear.The scent of light affection, the sound of soft scratchingthe taste of heated instrument, the stroke of weighted ink, the sight of inflamed lineetching into the sensesfelt all over as an indiscreet, explicit synesthesia.Who is the author of this inscription?Who is not?The author of all is the same as all the authors.The text remembers them entirely. Nothing can ever be forgotten. No one either.Each makes a mark, many marks, many impressions.Inscriptions with remain. Even still, again.The waxy collection of writingswhich are rewritings themselvesaccretes in excess of hand to hand to hand to hand contactinscribing the touch of the future into the past.