Half of my heart.

I carry my heart not on my sleeve, but on my fingertips for the very simple reason that I feel things with them, just like I feel the love for you. They’re the first to go exploring around the unchartered territory of your mysterious self. They’re the ones who sense your muscles tighten when you’re not happy with how things went at work and they’re the ones that comfort you when I graze my hands through your hair. They’re the first to get burnt when I bake for you. They’re the ones who heal me. It is because of them that I can play the music you love. They help me write the words to sing. My fingertips are what you search for, in the middle of the night, to hold on to. So yes, I carry my heart on my fingertips; not so that it can bleed every time I prick myself when you give me roses, but because it is how I’ve learnt to love you.