I thought of you tonight. Right after I put on my cold-cream, and those nightly rituals which keep my youth in check.
I was rubbing my hands together and marveling at their softness when I remembered how they felt in your hands. Last night, when we were sitting staring at the sea together.
They felt tiny, in your hands. The callouses on yours leaving strange imprints on my palm, because you held them a bit too hard. My ring, the moonstone for anger, digging a bit too deep and a muffled ouch which your lips stifled.
You said you loved how soft they felt against yours, and I pick up the mixture of rose water and glycerine. This is my ritual, and your lips validate it. And I giggle at the everydayness of it.
There was a slight breeze and my hair was blown across your face, and you said it smelled nice. I make a mental note to use the shampoo you liked, tomorrow morning (just in case you happen to stand next to me again, sometime soon).
You ran your fingers along my neck, and I said it tickles, and you said it felt like silk. I trace that line you made and feel your touch again. And blush at my vanity.
We walked along the sand, and your hand around my waist, stole under the cloth to outline that curve. You said it was like a piece of heaven, and I smiled because it is always you calling out my hyperbole. But I turn around in my bed and feel myself shiver, because I might be a part of your idea of heaven.
As I said, I thought of you.