Fingies

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 I guess I will write.

My fingers ache as I type these words. 

Weary, as they have done so much for me.

They glide effortlessly across these keys, making clacking noises that soothes that little itch in my head.

They give me my meaning. 

They give me my livelihood.

They pull me up on a slab, they hold on to my mug, for my warm daily notes of chocolate and berries in my first sip of coffee. 

I see little wrinkles along my fingers. 

Every time I look down, the microscopic grooves get just microscopically bigger, signifying the passing of the wonderful days they that have served me. 

I don't know what the point of this is. 

Other than the gratitude that I can feel the ache in my fingers as I write this.


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