Fingertips

My fingertips are made of glass.

I'm afraid to tap too hard in ponder,

for fear of shattering.

To run my fingers along the wall,

tracing my steps to destinations,

is to carve rivers in sheetrock.

Aching to find touch along cheekbones,

but should I love too earnestly,

skin falls from bone.

I dip them in ink,

flicking spots into the universe,

and trace my words across lines.

My consciousness finding solace

in the oil-slick rhythms.

Hymns and lyrics, so eloquently

posed to the world from their edges.

My fingertips are made of glass.

Translucent and beautiful,

terrifyingly unsure.

Their lack of shelter rendering

them to cowardice; hidden in palms.

But as they stretch toward cover,

bend in cursive, follow mountains,

and valleys,

they flourish.