I Miss Him

I miss him. I wonder everyday if he knows this. There are plenty of things I miss about him. His eyes, the way they stare and question and smile. They show so many emotions. I miss his smile and the way he could make me smile, too. I miss the way he made me laugh. But oddly enough, what I miss the most are his hands. Large, long and slightly bony. They way they grazed over my knee, making me tingle inside. They way he squeezed my hand with his, running his thumb over my palm. I loved the way they moved, danced and jittered when he talked. Yes he spoke with his hands.
The left one was more scarred. I wish I had asked him about those scars. Known each one and felt each ridge and known every story. But it's too late. He's gone.
I try to remember what they felt like. They're warmth, they're strength. Him. I try to remember him and they way his hands felt when his fingers laced around mine. I miss him.

"This work will certify that the above work is completely orginal." Emily Christine Welby.