Fingers in Focus

Trimming my cuticles, lost in the glow of the screen,

a white flake emerges, stark and serene.

This small canvas of skin, how often I touch,

yet ignore in the rush, underestimating much.

As I reach for the popcorn, a snag stops my hand,

like a stop sign in thoughts, a gentle command.

Why do I forget how they bear the strain,

these edges of skin that can whisper my pain?

The moments of care that slip through the cracks,

as I paint them with polish and layers relax.

But I linger a moment, their fate in my grasp,

tender reminders, too easy to clasp.