clutch

The imprints of your fingers leave their mark on my neck like a psychologist's ink stains.

I still feel your fingertips, gently but firmly holding me. My neck, my waist. Exploring, investigating, supporting, caressing, teasing.

In the darkness I can imagine they still sear my skin; still seek me out.

That you're not thousands of miles away, and so far from my touch.

Why, sometimes I've imagined as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

^{now playing: bjork - aeroplane}