Conduction.

On days like today
my head burns hot.
I want to press it
against cool things.
Window panes, mirrors,
glasses of  water.
The palm of your
hand.

The glass is left with
a fine mist the pores
exhaled.
Your palm is left with
my heat.

When my hands are
hot I like to grasp
cool metal and press my
palms against stone walls
in the shade. When I
walk past fountains
I dip my fingers in.

My hands are left with
the tang of oxidation.
Drops of water fall
from my fingertips
and leave traces
in the dust.

One day, I think my
body will get too hot,
too tired. I will
lay down in the
cool earth and press
myself into its damp
darkness.

I will leave
nothing but my
cold white bones.
Like fingers,
mirrors, metal,
stones.
My heat will
dissipate
into
darkness.

Your palms will be left
without it.