In the darkness your hand finds mine and despite everything else that’s happening this is what I focus on, this is the intimacy I was craving.

I explore your hand, lightly brushing your knuckles. The skin there is already bruising and the build up of blood makes it feel like fruit that’s been left in the bowl too long. My eyes never break contact with yours as I press lightly on the bruises, I see the flinch of pain, but you don’t look away.

I find an indentation on one of your fingers, it puzzles me briefly until I realise it’s where your wedding ring used to reside. Your eyes leave mine, and my fingers, unlike my thoughts, leave the circular scar alone.

A wandering finger finds a patch of tough skin, a callous from all your writing. I wonder how much of that callous you got from writing to me, how much you got from writing to others.

Suddenly our hands grasp together with more strength than I thought either of us had, slowly you let go and then I watch you leave, wondering if you’ll ever come back.