I miss the feeling of his hand in mine. Our fingers intertwined in this mess of flesh as we sit side by side in my car. It lets me know that he’s there with me for that
brief
moment
in time.
The heat radiating off of them is comforting and when I take my hand back to turn the wheel, it immediately longs to be held again. But not by just anyone, but
by
him.
He would call my nasty, calloused, Starbucks hands soft and inviting and I would think he was absolutely crazy but would blush and smile all the same. I still do it. The blushing, I mean. Any little phrase will set me off and cause my entire face to turn the color of a ripen red pepper. I’d never tell him this, but I love
when
he
makes
me
blush.
My hand is still waiting for him to come back, so it can be held again. Nothing will suffice. Not the cell phone I tend to lose. Not the pen I will make my money off of. Not even the coffee cup that never seems to want to let go. Nothing
compares to
his touch.
Nothing.
When he comes home, I’ll be waiting. And I’ll finally be able to stop and take a breath and relax and let his touch
linger
on my
skin.
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