Memory

Her skin throbs with the memory of his touch. The blood vessels under pulse and pound in unison with his name, remembering his silky touch, his teasing fingers, his warm lips.

She is awakened by phantom kisses on his neck, imaginary hands wrapped around her waist. Oh god, she missed his touch so badly, it burned inside her, her body feels pale and dead, screaming to be soothed by only that one set of hands.


And yet. And yet. She slips into an old familiar bedshirt she wore as a little girl, soft checkered cloth hugging her body with an old comfort. She climbs into bed, familiar worn blankets sliding past her skin. She can do this. She can fall asleep alone. She can move on.


Just as long as he doesn't come back. Please don't come back.