My whole life
people have talked about hands
and arms
and hearts
plaguing them in their solitary sorrow.
But since I let you go
I've found that isn't true.

I miss you in my wrists.
Your hands spilling over mine,
our wrists meeting,
kindling soft warmth in the tender places.

Your bicep trapped in my hands,
my fingers traveling streams beneath your skin,
my wrists hidden away in the reservoir of your arm,
still and secure.

I miss the spots where my wrists would meet your neck
each time you kissed me,
when my fingers twisted in your hair
and I could feel your pulse beating beneath mine.

The thought that I made a mistake--
the fear that I'll never
find that
again--
is what haunts me.
The pain of it travels with me
always sitting in two places
and it knows no rest.
Keeps me sprawled and awake in the night
Keeps me sullen and numb in the day
Keeps me scattered from focus at work
Keeps me docked on the precipice of tears:
Hastily duck under my desk to wipe at my eyes with a shoelace.
Talk too excitedly to disguise my bright eyes,
Fake a sneeze to blame my sniffs on pollen.
Force laughter at things that aren't funny.
Chug water to account for frequent trips to the restroom.

Massage the base of my palms to try to soothe the aching.

The place I miss you is my wrists.