I felt the scratch of your unshaved face against my palm and my hand moved up along your cheek.
Your bones were resistant.
I twisted my fingers.
In the space just above your ears: a thick mass of russet brown that continued around.
I clapped my hand over my mouth and listened to the sounds of you sob.
(No wait, that was me)
I hoped that you wouldn't be sick.
We were in the pitch-black.
This time I pushed memories of a grey cubicle into my mind.
Of the summer time.
The heat only bothered me when we were apart.
La Douleur Exquise.
I don't think there is anything else to say.
We will have to wait six more months.