she lets it seep into her skin, touch memory, takes in every single detail: your smell your fabric your heartbeat your weight your head your breathing
she takes a touch-photograph and preserves it in salt
black: some things are felt better than seen
she keeps it guarded in a treasure box in her heart and only at bedtime
does she curl up and unlock the parched picture
and you are there, your arms and your chest
five seconds preserved, stretched, frozen in time and replayed a million times (it is all she has)
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