january tastes like your skin:

your goosebumps, your freckles.
every time one of us would talk, an explosion of

tongues and sighs and warm whispers would
make itself known in the air. 

i miss that. 

i miss the limbs that couldn’t tangle fast enough.
i miss the heavy breaths that taste like vanilla and strawberries.
i miss the―
i don’t know what else i miss, but it starts with you.