6:38 AM — The back of your hand feels familiar when I touch it with my fragile fingers. I trace the lines on the surface of your veins and I try to think of a story, remembering a memory of a memory you've told me. Your wonder years flash through and I grasp all the minute details, but I don't memorize your memories as I don't want it to be mine.
Knowing you, like the back of my hand, means knowing you from the inside out and I resist to know that you get angry with the little things and you don't like being the underdog. Sometimes, though, I yield. I watch you sleep and listen to your words and I try, I try so hard to understand.
I haven't done this in a long time. Heck, I am not even sure if I've done this at all.