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.