Her.

The thoughts and feelings that extend from these fingertips, these hallowed lines of flesh; they’re like no one else’s.

I have my own set of unique life prints that cannot be copied.

In a moment of explosion my eyes are closed – like driving under bridges,  passing transport trucks, the predictable scary part in a movie, like a first kiss.

The best things in life aren’t seen, but felt.

Cold engraves a signature on my cheek. No one else will touch this place again with the same feeling.

When my heart is open I expect a gentle guided hand, not a sword of rusted valor.

Sometimes I wonder if I act without soul. I wonder if she follows behind me and shakes her head when she sees I’ve done wrong.

I wonder if she tries to put a hand on my shoulder and say enough’s enough. I wonder if she is a she, or if she is a he, or if there is nothing but room temperature air and I’m talking to myself.

I wonder if she thinks of me and smiles like when I think of her.

M.