I can't help but think about your hands. I want them just to be touching me, in some small way. Caressing my knee, holding my hand, feeling my heart. I imagine them sometimes disembodied from the rest of you, wondering if it would be the same without you there. It isn't. Without you attached they become these strange faceless, anonymous pieces of flesh, growing cold and wrapped around my waist or caressing my cheek as I fall into a dreamless, hopeless sleep.
Sometimes I think about the time we went out, and ended up talking until late at the bar on East Broadway. It was winter, so I had on some kind of fancy stockings to help keep the heat in. That day they were some kind of textured lace that made my whole lower half look like a sculpted art piece, attached at the waist. Feeling my knees, your fingers found the ripped hole in my jeans, and the lace beneath. I think it surprised us both.