I remember her fingers.
They were slightly bent,
because there were stitches on them.
I remember the story behind them,
and the pain I had tried to feel
when she recounted it to me.
I remember her warm hugs,
and the smell of her skin against my nose.
The kind of fragrance that I could never find in a bottle.
It comes back to me sometimes,
on lonely nights, when I’m tired of life,
and I walk out to the balcony,
trying to picture her in the black of the sky.
It comes back to me, when I realize how
there’s no such sight in the world I’ve seen,
and no such person I’ve made memories with,
that could ever match that feeling
I used to get, lying on my mother’s lap,
wishing I could perfectly fit in there again.