The imprints of your fingers leave their mark on my neck like a psychologist's ink stains.
I still feel your fingertips, gently but firmly holding me. My neck, my waist. Exploring, investigating, supporting, caressing, teasing.
In the darkness I can imagine they still sear my skin; still seek me out.
That you're not thousands of miles away, and so far from my touch.
Why, sometimes I've imagined as many as six impossible things before breakfast.