I wrote until my eyes turned black
(I chose this).
I tried too hard to focus in on
you.

You use few words;
I wrote until your (sentences) grew
and filled in the blanks.

Hindsight is 20/20.
And looking back, I see that
I should have looked closer.
You didn't need to flourish verbally.

It was
unnecessary
confusing
wonderful
crazy
unsettling
funny
strange
(you choose).


...

You know something?

You have the most beautiful hands I've ever seen.

They're so smooth, supple, but strong and muscularly at the same time. In music class, when our friend is busy playing some crazy riff that makes me feel ashamed to be a musician, and our other friends are hiding behind the table playing tap-tap on their iPods, you pick up a guitar and let loose the amazing talents you hold onto the instrument.

Me? I just watch your hands.

There's something there that I can't quite explain...it's just when I watch you skilfully pluck that guitar in your grasp, how it seems to fit so perfectly in your arms, I wonder if I would fit there too. You hold it close to your chest, like you would hold a baby, and I want to be held like that too.

But your hands...

They pluck the strings, moving the fingers slowly, delicately, yet so surely. Your nails are clean and shiny, a sign that you look after yourself well. I watch the muscles and tendons move in harmony, as you, in turn, create a sound that is harmonious.

You look so beautiful.

If I could keep any part of you to myself, it would be your hands. Oh, you have no idea how many times I am tempted to lean over and just...run a fingertip down the back of your hand. See if they're really as smooth as they look. Feel if you really can touch the muscles moving.

Know what it would be like if I kissed your fingertips.

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