Every time I am lonely,
I remember the feel of his fingertips.
Not in the way you would think,
More of in the way when you’re homesick,
And you begin to remember all your favorite things.
The way he traced my skin,
As if he would never feel or see it again.
The way his lips brush across my ear,
Sending shivers down my spine,
And yet it wasn’t anything sexual.
Every time I am lonely,
I can smell the scent of his skin.
The smell of home,
And at this moment is when,
I realize I know where home is,
Where it has always been.
Every time I am lonely,
I remember the last words that traced his tongue,
Because even if it was something simple,
It was only meant for me.
Like honey dripping out of his mouth,
With words so sweet.
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Originally posted here: Every Time I'm Lonely
About the Creator
E.G.
My work aims to provoke reflection, ask uncomfortable questions, and occasionally offer a path forward — but never too easily. When I'm not writing, I'm probably reading three books at once or arguing with myself about which one to finish.
Comments (1)
This was bittersweet and lovely