Still mask, that's what's left- a face,
A canvas for words I've never said.
Your fingers tracing the lace,
The only  thing I ever dread.

You place the letters by my side,
Silent tear rolling down your cheek,
Words tangled in webs, trying to hide,
Knowing that I'll never speak.

You lay white lilies by ice-cold hands,
Close to cover the letters as it lands.

Fighting over stupid things
Like what colour something is

Her skin is wrapped in Henna,
Beautiful brown ink,
Sketches cover her thighs.

Little golden vines wrap around her fingers,
Intertwined with the bare white of mine,
She's a work of art, such a beautiful painting,
I trace each line of the brush.

do hands deserve fingers
if they do not hold
do ears deserve sound
if they do not listen
do eyes deserve sight
if they do not see

do you deserve love
if you broke me

My earrings are handmade by hands that don’t love me.
The fingers that bent metal into joyous, beautiful shapes were my own.
But I struggle to love those hands.
I struggle to love the body or mind attached to them too.

I was raised by hands that don’t love me.
Ever since I was small, I’ve known somewhere
that my tiny fingers were only valued
once they grew into working hands.

wine glasses nestled between
almost frozen fingers,
sipped by months sore from smile.

laughter warms
and makes the stomachs of
friends long familiar ache.

time can not steal the comfort
found in the stitches of
each others sweet company.

12/18/24

I choose fingers,
among the array
of many wonderful
parts on offer,

the other sensory emissaries protest,
but the multi-fluency of fingers,
fluent in all Romance languages,
nay, in every dialect, tongue,
tippling the balance in their favor

for the fingers are wonderful conversationlists, trumping the
cooing coyness of sweet wordy
verbs, fingers defy nouns, pronouns

and are fingers the finest conjunction
that was ever conjured ot conjuncted?

the ears hear poorly when upom it
a long  slim finger casually traces outlines
slow~sensually and the eyes shut tightly,
reflexively, the tongue froze to the
mouth roof, muted into inaction

even the the sense of smell lies powerless
should we block the nostrils with but
*******, and breathe mouth mightily

we do not diminish the orchestration’s
totality, the blending of sound ‘n sensation,
but the blind and deaf all must bow before the power of fingers speaking to
every part of the bodies totality

soft to the touch
my fingertips hold the most
the heaviest things
like your heart
but to hold one thing
is to let go of another
I watched the well dry as you drank up
every single drop.

my tiny, tiny fingertips
hold a weight beyond belief,
it can since it wants.
my hands want to carry your weight
so you don't have to pretend
to care about this
or to love us
I held on to your heart
while you ran with the wolves
You ran with out the thought of me
Forgetting your heart as well
I'm just as forgetful
But I don't forgive.

All the wallflowers
Picking up the sun
Slowly walking towards
The madness
Moving statues
Entwined at the
Fingertips
You can find your
Picture on my wall
Walking on two legs
Facing the sound
Of empty eyes