Musicaholism

And I am looking at my fingers and I think about all the times they had a life of their own and went on typing the words my mind wouldn't have wanted to type. And I think they could be the fingers of a piano player or a painter.
I am looking at them in the dark and can only perceive their shape, but not their texture. I only see two dimensions. Two colors. Dark gray and black. And they are reaching next to me, as I lie in my bed. And my hands stretch and stretch until they touch the warm skin lying next to my body. And they stop, then lovingly start to touch and feel this alien body.

They go up and down and gently touch the skin's surface. And stir reactions in the person next to me, although he is asleep. And they infiltrate in his dreams and take over his mind.

And I remember the first time they touched this body. I remember how my whole body quivered from just the tip of these long fingers to the heart. These fingers that have betrayed me so many times, that spited me and cheated on me.

The hands whom people have admired and dedicated poems to; with tentacles that entrap hearts and hide the darkest secrets.

And I find myself hypnotized by their power. I become a victim of their touch.