I Know, You Like The Back of My Hand

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.

How To Not Miss Home

In an email to L, I wrote:
"Home used to mean coming home to you asleep and waking up with breakfast right by the bedside. How many apartments have transferred to in the past couple of years after we broke up and stayed friends? Three?"