Picked Slow

✢────────── 𝔊 ──────────✢ Pick at me—slow, precise, small sharp flicks, done once, done twice; not too much, just held in line, every touch set deep in time. Fingers working—sure, controlled, press, then ease, then barely hold; pull it tight, then let it ring, knowing how to move each string. Low and slow—don’t overplay, keep it close, don’t drift away; down my spine in steady time, like I’ve been working that rim of my glass all this time. Pick, then flick—then pause again, set the line, then draw it in; every nerve falls right in place, held beneath your measured pace. No excess, no wasted move, just that tight, unbroken groove; you don’t miss, you don’t guess, you press just enough—no more, no less. So stay there—keep that line, every motion clean, defined; ’cause everything in me begins to follow how you keep picking my strings. ✢────────── 𝔊 ──────────✢ Written in Gray © 2026 ✢──────────────────────✢