For the most part, my fingertips trail behind me. Sliding over every surface of where I think I ought to be. Sometimes though, I let them take the lead. I wait for the cover of night, escape the shameful exposure daylight brings. I stumble after them as they drift this way and that, maybe they are being pulled by the tides, perhaps they are trying to outrun time. Sometimes, when I surrender to them, my fingertips reach up, stretch so far that they graze the bellies of the stars. They reach out too, navigating over foreign bodies, searching for something that doesn't quite fit into the container of clumsy words. They search for this as they travel down his chest, brush over her pouted lips. Once or twice during my feverish pursuit I’ve stopped in my tracks, wondered why these fingertips of mine have begun to reach out more and more to her lips, straying away from his chest. My fingertips though, they pay no mind to trivial concerns such as this. But when I regain control, push ahead, my fingertips become agitated. Hungrily flipping through the pages of my story, eager to devour the end before we even reach it. They pull away from her then because, “That's not how I thought I would be.” Yet when my fingertips again become their own, they wipe away the dust from an old window, expose the rest of them. We see them all, saving their someday dreaming for Sunday evening. My fingertips tear into the night and show me that someday, I’ll be somewhere, bowed and heavy dreaming of this very evening. There is one thing though, that these fingertips and I agree on. We reach out together, one digit at a time, a sweet succession. We dig into the earth, sink into it, feel the dirt push up under our nails. Together we do everything we can to keep from spinning forward with each passing day. We know that if we were ever to relent, become friends with time, she would cause us to go completely blind.