That fingers of yours

 

I love how your little nimble fingers dancing around on the seemingly ugly depictions of this devastating world. They are with bursting agility, some eagerly to feel the texture of the thin grimy papers and some on the fear of venturing, like your little pinkie gingerly lifting up, nevertheless, still with a tinge of anticipation.

Or your neatly, saliva-laden bandage wrapping around your middle finger, shying away from any action-packed movements of yours, but still, blatantly strikes a contrast with other fingers that attracts (really) too much attention from all the adults, pouring their tender loving care to you. “You poor little thing”, they said, blinded by that little smirk under your docile smile.