Them

Her

Fire burns up her spine,
his fingertip touches
igniting her skin
with ripples that crescendo
into tidal waves
of yearning.
His absence rips caverns
in her soul,
her mind an empty shell
when he’s away.
How many millenia
have passed in the time
between their last union,
the last moment
her skin met his?

Him

His fingers
can’t remember
what it feels like
to touch her.
Imagination,
pictures,
and her letters
speak in her voice
when he is unable
to bear the distance.
Instead,
he drowns himself
in forgetfulness
because his hands
are empty,
as vacant as she left his heart
on that road stretched towards home. His cheeks are dry,
as they’ve always been,
but scattered shards of his love
rip holes
in his hands.

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