This is the first thing you miss; the abominable, sinking feeling gripes and you don’t even try to shake it off. His skin on your skin, for the first time in a long time or perhaps the first time ever, you notice the void; a stormy canyon, so deep you cannot see its bottom.
His skin on your skin. The mundanity of his palm caressing your widow’s peak, the natural progression of his hand down your spine; how volatile and familiar, did it seem then. Now, you would do anything to get it back.
Your skin, and his skin; one and the same, an interminable skin that encompassed all of your limbs, your dreams, and your thoughts.
Only, it is all gone.
Crushed, decimated, torn…
Il est mort, vous etes morts. No longer can you go back to the morning coffees, sitting on the brim of the chair so your knees can graze, no longer will he pass a hand in your hair with no motivation but to get closer to you, no longer will you press your head against his chest and inhale the subtle scent of musk and cinnamon. Did you ever think, before it occur ed, that you couldn't sleep for days after the abandon? That you would feel like a leafless tree, or a caterpillar without its cocoon. When he left, it was as if he took your skin too. Everything that held you together, unravelled, torn at the seams.
If you didn't know yet, Sade's new album (after a 10 years absence) is dropping in early February.