Fingertips

Fingertips on black ink
Hands and mind never in sync

Fingertips keep chasing blood
Again it might as well be mud

Fingertips as cold as ice
The pits of hell from where she writes

Fingertips don’t play that nice
She leaves a trail for where she cites

Fingertips could warm my face
Instead they spray my eyes with mace

Fingertips that own the place
But he was gone without a trace

Fingertips that write the lies
And only one who really tries

Fingertips could save the day
Instead they chose to walk away

Fingertips in black ink
Wishing you were here with me

Fingertips under her sheet
Wondering why it’s never me

If fingertips could only speak
What sort of words would they leak

This absence that you’ve given me
Leaves me feeling incomplete

© Delia Ross. 2019

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