Fingers

The dread that fills these fingers is an impenetrable dread. They feel heavy, weighed down: a metaphysical burden that manifests itself through flesh and skin and bone. There is an underlying aching; a certain yearning for an elusive dream. These fingers chatter noiselessly across the page but their silent speech ceases to hold any meaning; anything of significance.

The fingertips are calloused; rough like sandpaper. Fingernails, bitten down to the core. Pink and sickly yellow lies the puckered meat beneath. Like something ugly. Like something dying. And always that incessant throb, neverending - an extension of a deeper dissatisfaction within. Where is the connection, and how is it severed?

Fingers do their stuttering dance, but nothing is ever said.

0606

100909