You tell me every day, how my fingers are long and are like a pianists.
You say how they could link into yours, holding your hand in comfort, how only a few flicks of them can give you immense pleasure and happiness. How they curl and twirl around my hair gracefully; because in the end, you’re always the one who can see right through me.
You tell me every day how you could stare at the way they run along paper in either a drawing or a story, creating a mess of beauty and sophistication.
Oh, how you know me.