I press the keys, I hold the pen – in bold letters –
I declare again – my moods as they swing, my heart when it sings, my soul as it lifts, the ache you left me with.
I touch the walls, I tear the leaves, I hold my glass, I spread some khol. Now I hold them close, I hold them close.
What-when-why-then back when
I had held his in May, and his in July, slowly as the seasons seem set – I held my fingers closed, I let time fly
This poem is loosely prose, but then it is titled – Fickle Finger-fiction.
Why is it fickle? And is it fiction because the story is unreal or it is fiction because fiction is prose?
Finger-fiction? Because it is a story of the things my fingers do or is it a meta-poem?
Oh. And did you notice the then ( past ) part of the story before the now (the present)?
I hope you have fun reading this one, as much as I had writing it.