PHANTOM LIMB

The July sun made our hands damp and sticky that Monday afternoon.

Our fingers slipped together so we readjusted them again and again, 

locking them ever tighter, 

the possibility that we might let go, just for a second, never even once crossing our minds.

I can still feel yours now, 

the way you squeezed my palm just hard enough to hurt a little, 

to let me know that you were real, and that you were here, and that I was okay.

The sensation is etched into my brain, 

a blueprint of what it felt like to be loved by you on that day —

the ridges of your knuckles,the scab on your index, 

the gorgeous thickness of your fingers and the way they slotted so perfectly with mine.

I remember you darting your thumb across the tips of my fingers as we sat on your couch,

back and forth, back and forth,

playing my painted nails like sharps,

counting them like I count the days now,

religiously,

until I can see you and hold your hand again.