'So, I kind of miss home too. Except my home was a guy with long, skinny fingers*'.
Long, skinny fingers up and down a winsome spine. Early mornings, a joint and you.
Long, skinny fingers in bandages and a sling, on the flat of a stomach. A long drawn kiss, slow and unsure.
And then, another journey.
Life fitted in a rucksack, he became his black bracelet on my wrist. Fog descended upon his city and he was- lost.
'Don't leave me ever,' he asked the nomad.
She smiled into him.
Long, skinny fingers at the back of her neck, the small of her waist. A memory of a touch. A scar. Him, running. Her, static and still.
Through all the years, he had become her and her, him. She was now the confessing sinner. He had all the remedies.
Words which felt right in his mouth, like her name.
'The stroke of my brush is the curl of your hair. Marry me, I will paint mon amour every morning. I will fill canvases with you, I will paint your body, sculpt you, worship you.'
Long, skinny fingers on a paint brush. Paint on your face and a smile.
She could never go wrong for him and that killed her.
There was a turbulent space between him and his wife on their wedding bed where the ghost of her memory slept in peace.
Long, skinny fingers on a defeated face, in a cold hand shake, in the cling of tears that never came.