his touch

His hands used to sit at the curve of my waist

Pulling me closer

lingering near the edge of my spine

and in the good moments it was sweet

and in the others it was a cage

when his touch felt like possession

and I stopped knowing who I was

it is a different kind of death to lose yourself

when the memory of his touch is imprinted on your skin

a type of wound that will never bleed

but still tugs at your heartstrings