My fingers are red

 My fingers are red because I’m in love with you. They blush at the touch of your skin.

I think I exist only because I’m in love with you.

I’m subsumed by your love.

Then again, I use the word ‘love’ liberally. As if it doesn’t attach with itself, the connotations and further inhibitions of consequence.

I say the word with awe and with such intensity, I move forward with only that in me. There is nothing else.

I fall in love with love every time you talk to me and say my name.

My name sounds like glory when you tie it to your tongue.

Your tongue holds secrets that only I could catch. I still don’t catch them.

I do everything just almost. Maybe I almost fell in love with you.

But the mere remembrance of the worldly hollows was enough to make me forget you. I could only see the gaps and the voids and the needs and the cries.

I see your gaps too – a little too much. I’m not in love with you.

I’m a landmine. Not visible from a distance and seemingly docile but once you step on me, I will be your death.

I don’t want to see you dead. I wouldn’t want to see dead people. Or maybe I would.

Anyway, my fingers are red. Don’t touch me again