An infinity or a figure eight.
Your fingers always seem to trace.
As if you’re trying to unlock a gate.
Your fingers trace perhaps a face?
A trace made only by your hands.
On wooden tables and coffee stands.
A trace made only with angelic strides.
On shoulders with no reason to hide.
Your soul is what your fingers lace.
Expressing emotions through a visual state.
A never ending motion of grace.
An infinite flawless figure eight.
They disregard it as a mannerism.
Their voices filled with skepticism.
But I would have to disagree.
Your eights bring glorious joy to me.
For in those little infinite eights,
I see a love for life displayed.