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I don’t remember us. I mean, I don’t remember why we were together, what we were.
But you know what? I do remember your hands.
Long, pale fingers always grasping, touching, caressing, hurting the world around you; trying to build something new, to destroy something useless.
Bony knuckles, sometimes scratched, dancing to the rhythm of your sinews.
Pale rose nails a little ruined on the top.
Palms facing the sky as soon as it started raining, wet and shining surfaces kissed by the wind.
Rough skin intersected by thin lines, pale veins flowing like rivers in your flesh.
The way they moved: pointing when showing me something interesting, relaxing when listening to my voice, shaking when unknown thoughts rushed through your mind.
How they used to run over my cheeks, lips, neck, shoulders, breast in the middle of the night.
I don’t remember you, but I do remember your hands.
I do remember the contact between us.

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