Hands

I woke early and rolled around in my half-full bed.

My hands are warming on a fresh cup of coffee.  Just holding the cup keeps my hands busy, steadies me. When there’s no one warm under the covers, one takes coffee to bed.

Without the java, my fingertips roam over my wrists and palms and knuckles, tenderly touching the dip between each finger where his hands were laced with mine. My thinking pauses, lingering and laughing at the antics of my own wanting, remembering the sweat on his shoulders and back, and my palms on the headboard in some crazy bracing yoga pose!

Without the steaming brew anchoring me to the present, I will repeatedly touch and follow the long line from ear to shoulder, find my fingers running through my own hair, silently pushing it off my forehead, tucking it behind my ear like his did when he wanted to see my face, the bend of my neck, the muscles of my back, as he looked down at me kneeling on the new sheets.

Dressing for work, physical memories are carved into my muscles. I walk shoulders back, hips thrust forward, my sore limbs and calves serve as witness to my evening workout. The pounding in my head spins the rhythms, tries to articulate the rhymes, sets a pace for those sweet sounds of encouragement,  notes the unintentional interruptions escaping from my throat when someplace inside releases those soft guttural accepting sounds.

The evening is crawling back through my mind, dragging distant proof to the surface, showing me how far away my body can take my mind.

I’m distracted; not seeing the road; my car finds itself parked between the assigned yellow lines.

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She smiles about this waking up alone time, the slow stretch, the silent roll into the pillow to pull back the touch of the lover who left later than he planned and earlier than she preferred.

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#for Reticent Mental Property

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