Missing Her

Stretching leisurely, she leaned forward and slipped the loop of her arms over my head. My response was nearly automatic; I have often placed my hands on her shoulder, so we become mirror images, staring into eachother's eyes as if the armslength were a millimetre or less. We're talking, laughing, debating, but it's almost a dream. The only earthy sensation is the rub of our bare arms, hard and warm and real. Without a warning- which would have been unnecessary- our elbows buckle, and suddenly the laughter on our lips is mingling and my hands are tracing sweet words across her hips. She giggles, ticklish, unable to read my words. It doesn't matter. She knows them anyways. I am savoring the smoothness of her skin like the smoothness of her voice. The fairer sex win that battle: compared to stubble, her cheeks caress mine. It feels right. The softness is all over, her collarbones, her wrists, her hipbones. Not her hands, though. They are chapped and pink, exploring my neck and hair and earsand shoulderblades. My chin is tilted up to meet hers. This moment will happen again...