Missing

I am missing the taste of his skin. The smooth planes of his shoulders, and the rough whorls of his elbows. 

I am missing the shape of his hands, and the way that he smiles, almost shyly, when I touch him. 

I have this image in my head, of one of the last lunches in my car. Of him twisting his neck to look at me, almost over his shoulder, his smile shy and hesitant, and his eyes green and tender. 

I am missing him.