I have these moments. When I am overwhelmed with the urge to touch your face. To place my hands along your jawline, tap my fingers on your cheekbones, trace your brows. The fact you're not here doesn't make the urge any less urgent.
I touch my face instead. Cover my eyes with my hands and pretend the skin isn't so soft. Reach out and move my fingers like they're playing scales, arpeggios in the air. Touching skin, lips, hair...
I pretend well-enough with eyes closed, can feel it all. Can smile. Laugh and hope. But a breath and lids lifted, and I see I'm alone at a kitchen table, the abrasive light from the computer in my eyes, the living room filled, but only with furniture.
Listening to: matt pond PA "Last Light"