Her hands had often clutched his favorite plaid shirt, the one he should have thrown away months ago. Between the fingers and against the palms, the fabric folded against her skin as his body came closer. Her fingers remember the cotton but not as favorably as they remembered the skin. They ran across it, gliding along over hairs thick and thin, skin soft and rough, and every freckle, blemish, and bruise in between. The stains of the skin were the words of his story, the wounds of his history. Those same fingers had brushed the dirt from his hair and taken rests on his shoulders. Catalyzing interaction and deepening communication, they were the most intimate creatures between them. Every electrifying touch was the creator of moments that could never be lost.
Within the crowd she was a mannequin. Within his eyes she was a woman of subtle, effortless beauty. When time was younger, he was looking when she wasn't. Seeing what she didn't see and couldn't accept. His hands too had had their