Sunlight & Skin, A Ghost of Your Touch

The dust motes dance like the memories – fleeting, beautiful, and always just beyond my grasp. Sunlight spills across my skin, a phantom touch that mimics yours.
I trace the line of my jaw, remembering the weight of your hand, the rasp of stubble against my neck. God, I crave that roughness now. A hunger that claws at me when all I should feel is calm.
This apartment… it smells like you left a piece of yourself here – sandalwood and something wilder, something only *you* carry. It’s been weeks since you walked out, weeks of pretending this hollow ache isn't eating me alive.
They tell me to move on, that what we had was just heat, a temporary combustion. They don't understand the pull – how some connections burn so fierce they leave an imprint on your soul. And maybe, just maybe, I like remembering the scorch.

Editor: Desire Line