The brain is a machine

Fingers

The pale white of a room cannot match the stale mood. Fingertips are such an artful thing; beauteous movements are done so perfectly, so delicately. The same dainty grasp to pull a curtain close can turn into a masculine squeeze on my ragged breath. Fingers will rip and pop open every button on my bodice, taking my innocence yet again, before restoring me with gentleness. Loving finger tips will caress my blushed, tear-soaked cheeks before gripping them to meet our eyes. Will they be my most prized painting or my fateful demise?