It's funny how the small things can catch you. An itch scratching itself just beneath the skin. Exposed by the curiosity of a lover's glance. And his kind hands pulling your fidgeting habits from their softly frantic dancing interplay.
I'm not doing it on purpose. Or blaming the imbalance of my body.
The fingers just get tired of finding themselves (and begin picking the rough skin away in bits). Each finger is a riddle with reddening jigsaw edges. Ten extended back stories, with their brittleness unhinged. The cracks have got salt in their teeth. Fingertips rip easy as the callouses are whittled down and down. When you open the rind the citrus pores intensify their misty glares. Ouch. Didn't mean to pull it that far. Several seconds of subsequent staunching and the prints begin to close up their red little mouths. So small. So loud.
All it takes is a faucet to get words going again. Fingernails carried away in a dizzy sharpened tension. And there are commas falling from my hands. Gotta keep this list alive, pull out the skin and let it breathe. The callouses make too much of sentences. They dry out the endings, and must be pulled back to a red-line climax. Correction. Some things you just have to cut out. To really get the feel of it I mean. Push the words back from hardening. Sharp red marks keep the fingers soft.
Enough of that now. It's really a nasty habit. Nobody likes a fidgety picker. But the fingers keep finding themselves. How can you keep touch from touching? Let it be. The cracks will know what to do without you. But you have to let them get over you. All over you. Wait out what's brittle. And let the context of your skin stiffen.
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