I miss him most when he is here, when he is close enough I could reach out and touch him. But only in places that are becoming routine. I reminisce back to a time when he would handle me like glass, when he'd run his fingers though my unwashed hair while I pretended to sleep.
Our first embrace.
When we kissed on the end of my bed, his skin slippery with angst.
My clothes wrinkled, synched tight around my waist getting caught between myself and the covers.
We were two brand new tension filled lovers.