Hello! I don't own Edward Scissorhands. And I was bored. End result below. :) Allow me to apologize ahead of time for grammatical errors, spelling stuff, or not doing a good job with Edward's character. Innocence can often be so difficult to portray. Hope you like it! :)

Hooray! I have reviews! Yeah, I know . . . but I get excited. I'm new to all this fanfiction stuff. Thanks for the encouragement, it's much appreciated.

Sitting alone, always alone, he can't remember the feeling anymore.

What had it been like? Soft skin. He couldn't remember. She had touched his face, surely – hadn't she? He knew her mother had. Soft. What was it like?

Scissors. Not knives, no – not weapons, per say, but still blades all the same. Why scissors? They were so ordinary, unassuming. But still dangerous. He might as well have daggers.

One gentle touch. He could not duplicate it himself – touching his face, he leaves scars, blood. And the fingers of his sculptures were cold, and hard. What was warm, soft? How was it?

She had held him – he had held her. He had touched her hair, if lightly. And her hand – dare he think of it. He'd touched that as well. He could remember the sinking guilt and fear and the blood welling up on her palm. But he would never know how it had felt to hold her. Just the cold metal and nothing more.

He remembered her face. It was soft. Gentle. How had it felt? How? Her skin was nothing but paper to him, to be torn and left in tatters.

"Hold me."

"I can't."

Human touch.

He remembered how she looked. How she sounded. And he knew that he had to touch her – feel her, run fingers through her hair and cup her face in hands. Hands he didn't have, hands he would never have.

Oh, he isn't angry about the way he is. This was the way his father had intended him to be - if not, he would've woken up and fixed him. Finished him. But he can't help the soft sadness. He twitches a blade, cringing at the metallic click.

But no – no. There is one touch he can still remember. That he would always remember, for as long as he lived. One touch that he'd never feel again, but a touch he didn't have to.

Lips. Soft and wet across his own. One fleeting moment. Then her breath in his ear.

"I love you."

All he wants is to feel one soft caress, and to return one of his own. The sorrow is back, and it doesn't look like it's going away.

What would he give to be gentle?