The redness on your arms. Your roughly patched skin.
Your soft black hair I used to push back.
And the cold skin on the sides of your chest, the parts I used to trace.

Your neck. Ugh, your neck. Where I used to bury my face.
And your smell that comes with it.
Your stubby fingers and your wide palms. The spaces between them. I miss those parts.

The back of your ears, those soft muscles I used to caress.
And your imperfectly shaped brows, those that I brush with my thumb. I miss those parts.

And your lips. Of course.
Those plump lips that used to touch mine.
I miss those.

Except you.
I don’t miss you.

God, I’d rather ****!

―a.t.