Starting from Scratch

My fingers are pealing again.

Layer after layer, I feel like my soul is slipping away. Every time I touch you, I feel further from you, as if I were slowly morphing into a dessicated skeleton--without skin, without nerves, without feeling.

My touch becomes more calloused, and then I'm scared of not only of losing touch, but also of hurting you. I'm scared of scratching you. The little, dry, hard flakes of skin stay attached to my fingers, and no matter how much I pick at them, no matter how much I try to make my fingers smooth like they were before, there are always more shards of dead skin waiting to be pulled up and redden your soft skin.

So, I resort to other methods of expressing my affection: I caress you through the fabric of your shirt, your clothes; I run my fingers slowly through your hair, down your back; I let my knuckles touch your smooth, warm cheeks, and I bury my cheek against your shoulder. But when I go to touch your skin with my fingertips, I imagine I can almost feel you flinch. I see you unconsciously dust away my hands as if I were massaging harsh sand into your soft skin.

This happens every time I play my guitar--for weeks after I've slid my fingers up and down those frets, the tips of my fingers are like bits of harsh slate, coming of in hard, sharp chips.