Winter Fingers Fit Like A Glove

Fingers hold onto what could be a mannequin’s cinched waist. The London street holds a faint mystery, but the snow occupies all the time. A fog carries away the humming carols, and the birds sing a reckoning tune. People walk across ice, yet slip onto only their words.

The boutique that sits on the mile, that lays the waist of the seemingly mannequin. The fingers seem never to fall from there, beyond frostbite and blizzard-like nicks. A hug would be to close, and so the finger stay put. However, even then regular newsman could see, how palms do reach.

Yet what was supposedly that mannequin, was no other than a home-bought blonde bombshell. A Londoner, a girl, a joke. The one who meet night’s end in an artificial frolic, the one who eats the lime yet craves the lemon. The whore. The peel.

And the fingers, well they weren’t really fingers. Two knitted mittens, sewn together into that mannequins waist for an idea of fullness. The two mittens, who she believed fingers, were filled with nothing but dreams one creates in the breeze of silence. A wish one longs for. A grasp. It was knowing.

Winter fingers fit like a glove, but really, what makes them fit is a tarts high.