it’d be your fingers.
i always loved them. they were completely unlike mine; long and elegant, with perfectly oblong nails. i could spend forever kissing them, especially when you’d been painting too long and they began to get stiff. that’s when you would finally leave your desk and fall into your place next to me on the bed, my nose buried in a book while you curled around me and told me your fingers hurt. i’d drop everything, now, to kiss them again, to feel the smooth skin of your hand on my cheek, to recall the exact pitch of your laugh.
but instead, you’re in another city wrapped around another body, your skin stained the color of whoever is your inspiration this month. and while you’re kissing down his shoulder blades, i’m left searching the paintings on my wall for a meaning, for a rhyme or reason. i’m left retracing your sketch lines, looking for your lingering warmth.