His hands are worn and cold, and he hasn't held you in so long that you've forgotten their feel and the roughness of them on your skin, reaching under the loose cotton tee you threw over yourself to answer the door at 2 in the morning.  The t-shirt is thin and white and once was his, although you claimed it as your own, smelling of his cologne and cheap cigarettes, the only thing left of him after all this time. 

His hands are worn and cold, and he hasn't held you in so long, that you've forgotten what it feels like to feel this, to feel skin on skin and lips brushing the curves of your exposed neck, her brown tangles on top your head in a messy bun, a few falling to meet the side of your face.

His hands are worn and cold, and he hasn't held you in so long, that you've forgotten you were once in love, that something beyond lust existed, that somewhere inside you a heart still sat beating and that the chambers of your heart weren't empty afterall, but filled with his memory, lying dormant all this time.