Fingerlengths of Love

A moment arrived after all that furious note taking where I looked at the lengths of my fingers and found love. 

Summer's been around long enough to leave its tanned message on their slender lengths. 

The smudges of ink that led my eyes to the tips of each digit made me want to write some thrilling magnum opus that would take a small, exclusive literary world by storm. I wanted them to make a masterpiece of worded chiarosucro that would twist thinking men and women into tangles of smouldering feeling that smelts emotion and light into an impossible skyrocket.

I wanted to have them dressed in rags of paint. I wanted to peel off the remnants of oil paint and have my long, lithe fingers leave a smudge on my forehead. 

It seemed only apt that they be stained with the ink from feverishly composing a tempestuous concerto; flying between the ebony and ivory and soon to be priceless sheaves of paper in the passion of creating a masterpiece. I wanted them twisting in the impertinence of creating something rebellious, a renegade in the midst of mediocre chaos. 

I felt a needle and thread would give form to a sublime tapestry, a camera would yield movement caught as it is exorcised from a body in the throes of motion. 

My fingers were asking to be loved. 

Waiting like coy temptresses for me to toy with a lock of my hair on stage or to still an arm of someone caught up in the fire of playing a part. 

They stretched waiting for me to call on them. 

They examined each others' lengths and confirmed that I loved them.

In french fried fingerlengths I found love.