touch has a memory of its own:
I remember him and his eyes. I remember his laugh. If I close my eyes long enough and think about him, I will be able to remember how it was to hold his hands, how his chest expanded and how it felt to hold him close enough. It can be almost as if he was there with me again.
Once, with no words, he pushed me against the lockers and his breath alarmingly warm on my skin. But I couldn’t look away. His eyes and hands held me so tight that when he let go, I couldn’t shake the imprint of his hands on my shoulder and his eyes in mine.
Another time, he had taken my hands and put it around his neck, his arms snaking around my waist, his voice close to my ear and whispering. Just whispering so many things, maybe about love, maybe about every day, but all I can remember is his breath warming the insides of my ear, the feel of his arms against jacket, the distance between us and everyone else as they watched us instead.
I wished I had enough courage to have held him back as well.
I remember the warmth of his skin against mine as a storm brewed outside his apartment, the television on, with me and another friend snuggled up on his couch, watching cheesy, romantic music videos. We fell asleep on each other as the afternoon turned into early evening.
I remember his hands when I first held it—unexpected and silent. I remember the look on his eyes at the contact: soft. I remember the feel of his hair against my hand and my face, his hair sweeping across my cheek. I remember his warmth as he took my fur-lined autumn jacket and wore it himself, his warmth as I stepped closer to take it off him, and for a moment how we both stood so close.
His hand removing my hood as I struggled to ignore the world and his questions. I remember his hands when I began to leave him.
I remember the the last touch he gave me without even taking a step near: a sad, desperate look that made my skin alternately warm and cold. How his voice felt when I heard it. A steam from the food we had ordered as the afternoon turned into a windy evening. The feel of the distance between us as we watched cars together, on an old wooden bench.
The feel of his voice, cracking into more questions and sadness when I finally stepped away. Touch has a memory of its own sometimes, and it doesn’t even have to be on the skin.
(from sunlit skies)
