You probably do not realize that I still think about your hands. After spending years reaching for them, holding them, feeling them grow rough and then soft once more, there are still new ways for me to be amazed by your palms and the fists that they fold into. Sometimes when I hand you your mug in the mornings, my fingers overlap yours for a moment and their skin surprises me. Sometimes when you fall asleep before me, your arms roam the mattress and your knuckles brush my cheek or my shoulder, and the bones feel new again. Sometimes, in your absence, when I find a note on the kitchen table, smudged by your southpawed script, I can picture exactly where the ink would have stained your pinky and the shape your hand would have made holding the pen. And it shocks me that I can know a part of you so exactly without losing the novelty offered by unfamiliarity.
And I am left with a hole at the center of the night sky in the shape of your back. The stars have moved and the stain of midnight has been poured into your outline. So I choose the same shade for every dress I wear because I want to look the way the world does when its light leaves.
Bring me a new colour to wrap myself in when you return, Jack.