This morning my hands wrote with a pencil, turned the key to check the mail, stirred my tea. I rubbed the ridges of my neck, felt the knots beneath the skin. At the nape began the roots of my soaking hair. Fingertips traced the border of skin and hair, the drops of water. Mornings are quiet and grey like the steam rising from my mug. There is a pause before the day begins; I feel it in my bones, a slow breath before the stretch.
This evening my hands ran through his hair, traced his jawline, spread against the bareness of his back. I grasped pieces of him with my fingers, feeling his warmth. His lips were soft. They always were.
