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.

The softest of pinks,
Much tougher than you think.
Upon seeing shades of red,
You’d think that they’ve seen nothing but the dead.
Instead;
They endure new blooms,
Garden grooms,
Pinches from males,
Often a bouquet of sales.
The colour pink,
Was more beautiful than you think.