The backs of my hands peel into palms and another gripping ten. The nails they grow to a march sounding of bone and flow, a heave exponential and a fractaling of my instrument.
About a centerless river where no dividing crux and knuckle bend can tore or defend I find a jointful temple rich. With current I am finally capable of balancing without attempting to grip.
I am a body of soft palms. No clutch though far from fingerless. I just breathe. And let the bliss rest.
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