Your ink-stained fingertips

This ink that I bleed on this paper
had smeared your skin, seconds back;
I can't take my eyes off the stain
on your fingertips,
wishing - it does not dissolve
in the sweat of your hard-working hands.

You ask for the jar
on that far shelf,
and I'm making sure if
you are talking to me.
But when I look at you,
your hands are already extended -
towards me.

I give you whatever it is
that you wanted,
and in that brief span of time
while the transaction is still in progress,
your indigo stained fingertips
brush against mine,
and your warmth hangs on to me
long after you have turned away
with your charming smile.

You resume your work,
and I resume staring
at your ink-stained fingertips.