Lines.

One of my favourite things to do is to run my fingers across the lines of your face.

To memorise exactly where they begin and end,

When a new one appears as a result of the years,

Where your smiles and frowns have left traces;

History.

Truth is, I do this now hoping one day I’ll be able to recall

Exactly where they were so I can trace them on my own,

Recounting stroke and line like rhythms in rhyme.

My brain reminds me every minute:

"It won’t always be this way

Take it in whilst you can;

Savour."

It’s my own fault I made you promise I die first, it’s how it needs to be

If you go first well…

No, I’ll go first.

See this is why it hurts

Loss is inevitable, someone always leaves

There is always another to leave behind, to say goodbye to, to be reminded of;

Mourning.

So I let my hands rest a little longer on your jaw, knowing exactly how I’ll grieve

Truth is, I’ve already started.

Sometimes it grows so much that it aches all over.

As the years increase in number so does the size of the pit in my stomach

So does the hole you’re going to leave behind,

Can’t you see it?

It grows with every laugh and tickle,

Every fight ending in forgiveness

Every touch into ecstasy

Every tear cupped by kisses

Every meal cooked in affection

Every embrace leading to sleep

Every step taken on adventure

Every time you say

You miss me

You want me

You love…

So I’ll continue to trace the lines on your face

To run my fingers up and down the veins on your arms

I’ll keep trying to hold, keep, squeeze;

Remember.