Even years later, you can still feel a hand in yours, the weight of a hug, the absence where touch used to be. Touch is the most human language, and what remains is the ache for it, the ghost of warmth on skin.
Read MoreI used to equate distance with absence. But absence is only absence when you’re unsure. This isn’t that.
Tuesday Afternoon Sensory Input
Sight.
Her face appears pixel by pixel, slow-loading clarity from another continent. Sunlight in Senegal catches the edge of her cheekbone, and even through the screen, she glows. The image stutters, lag. Then smooths. Then laughter. The miles dissolve in a smile I’ve memorized.
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