There are nights where I clutch pillows close to my body to satisfy my hunger for your embrace — I've never known my arms to ache at the thought of holding you, you soothe the calluses of your palms on the small of my back. 

There are nights where I count. One person, two people, three months, four hours, five lifetimes. I know that the highest number I can reach before I fall unconscious will be less than the number of days I will love you. 

There are nights where I know that surely there are worse things than yearning unmet but your words are distilled on my skin as if it is made of paper. Easily imprinted on, easily discarded.