Hands have memories of their own, you know. Recollections of textures and temperatures. Memoirs of movements- shudders, rising and falling, jerking and tensing, releasing and relaxing, breathing… Touches. So many touches, all remembered, dwelling at the ends of wrists.

Head droops at the end of a neck like a premature flower blossom, halted by a sudden frost- an unexpected winter’s death. Shoulders remain tense with the hardness of stone- enclosing the struggle. Mouth drones on, words pass over bloody tongue and split lips infected with broken promises- I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry…

Hours laze by, barely breathing, as time creeps on without you. Day one. Day two. Day three. And on and seven and on and sixteen and on and twenty three and on and on and on. Eyes perpetually flooding with what you left me with. Brain churning thoughts into a toxic sludge of skull-numbing pain, broken promises, and skin-against-skin memories.