That day when we first spoke, your first words to me were 'Your fingers look cute'. To which I replied that I didn't think so, that my fingers were too thick and my nails shapeless. You said that they were the most beautiful fingers you'd ever seen and pink nail paint suited them. That day, I fell in love with my fingers, pink nail polish and you.
Every time we met, you made it a point to tell me that my fingers were beautiful, rubbing against them with yours and smiling that crooked smile of yours when I blushed.
Each of our meetings, every step of our love story was witnessed by that pink nail polish, as if to bear testimony to our secret relationship.
That day when you confessed that there was someone else, my fingers broke down before I could. I asked you point blank if you'd been calling her fingers cute too. Your silence was chilling.
The pink nail paint bottle is empty, just like my life without you.
'Now, who's there to call us lovely?' my fingers ask me. I have no reply.
This poem is about a girl who gets cheated on by the boy she loves. It describes her sadness and hopelessness in a figurative language.