It has been too long since my fingertips have traced your smile, or pressed into your palm, or been held in yours.
It is why they are busy now, ferociously writing, stubbornly writing, determined to forget your warmth.
These fingertips of mine are set on keeping my mind distracted. They write determinedly, trying to empty my mind of the thoughts that torment me. Thinking that maybe putting these thoughts of mine between lined paper would keep them confined.
But it does not work. These fingers of mine seek solace in sheets of paper and colored fonts. Where once they sought your warmth, now they settle instead for the cold keys of the keyboard. Where once these fingers were wrapped around your own, they are now wrapped instead around the body of a pen.
Where once these fingers traced your spine they now trace the spine of old paperback novels. Searching for clues as to where you went. Hoping to discover some ancient secret of how to bring back lost loves. They’ll bring you back yet.