Ghost of Your Touch

The light… it always finds a way in, doesn’t it? Even through the gaps in closed blinds, the dust motes dancing like they're mocking you. It feels like hours since he left, but maybe it was only minutes.
I trace the line of my collarbone with a fingertip – cold skin meeting colder air. The ghost of his touch still lingers there, a phantom warmth I’m almost afraid to acknowledge. It wasn't about grand gestures with him, was it? Just stolen glances and the way he remembered how I took my coffee.
He said he liked watching me sleep. Said I looked peaceful. A fragile thing in this city that never sleeps.
I wonder if he feels it too – this aching quiet after a fleeting connection. Probably not. He probably already has a dozen emails to answer, another meeting scheduled. And me?
I’m here with the remnants of a dream and the faint scent of his cologne, knowing full well that some stories are just for the dawn.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn