Poetry

Fingers

finger

Tap, tap, tap. On the handle of the stairs, on the school desk, on my right thigh while walking home, I tap my fingers on them. Sometimes they dance in harmony, sometimes they jump in sync, and sometimes they are not interested in one another, nonchalant. I’m fond of the sound they make, the relationship they develop with the surface, the melody they create, the noise even. These are the reasons why I’d never stop on tapping. Aside from it being a habit, it has become a part of me.

Scrunch, tear, chomp. The crunching noise when I take out my Butterfinger from my bag, the ripping sound of the plastic being torn apart, and the crack I hear once I lusciously take a bite. My favorite chocolate at this moment is Butterfinger. If my hands have that for my fingers, they would be gone by now. I could never tap my fingers, I would never have a reason to say what I just said above, and I would never have the ability to type this.

And that sucks.

[Photo]

P.S. It doesn’t sound like a prose poem to me either. ☼

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