I loved her.
The skin behind my knee loved the ridges of her fingertips as they traced invisible lines back and forth, painting a masterpiece of emotion. The palm of my hand loved the feel of her cheek and the angle of her jaw. My lips loved the spot on the back of her neck that began a path of practiced meetings that led down her spine. My feet loved the feeling of hers as we tangle together under un-tucked sheets.
I loved her with parts I hadn’t realized could love and missing her had started in my chest but had spread like a plagued disease to my hands, my knees, my lips, my feet, infecting every piece of skin she had ever touched.
And it was there in the dining room of our home on a Tuesday night in August, alone, when I realized how deeply that love went.