with these hands

I lean against the keys.

they rattle

a quaint tune

and bumble back

into position,

accepting line after line.

they refuse to lie.

they crimp and kick,

bucking me along in

their mysterious way,

a word at a time.

only these words,

no judgment,

no thick headed answers,

telling me what I want to hear.

there is escape at the keys,

a flavor resilient and gracious.

it takes a little time,

but I begin to understand 

what they are saying.

they are grand and neurotic,

bending this way and that,

sketching out what needs

to be said.

they scream to keep 

death

at bay.

the sweet, slippery wet,

draws me in.

a few more inches

and I'm almost there.

the tension, the tight pulling.

that lapping extension of soul,

promising release,

giving itself over freely

and without restraint.

my fingers graze,

play at the edges,

rubbing one out for 

the world to see.

just another line

and I'm spent,

lying on the floor 

in a heap,

waiting for the words 

to come.