His Hands

The thing I find myself missing the most? His hands.
They're large, warm, the skin slightly dry.
The palms feel massive when they engulf my own,
And my fingers feel a little too short when I thread them through his own.
I remember holding them for the first time, being surprised at the size
And the pure dry heat of them radiating against my skin –
He sounded amused when I told him, inelegantly, "You've got such massive hands!"
His response being, "Are you really that surprised?"
His hand giving a gentle squeeze as he said it.

Unexceptional to most people, but I love them all the same.
I love how delicate they feel when he brings my own fingers up to his lips,
And the firm heat when they rub the small of my back.
I love the tight, reassuring grip he uses when he smothers my hand with his own,
And I love how he never lets go until he has to.
I often find myself reaching out,
Trying to grab something that isn't there,
And it's in those moments that my hand feels colder than usual
Without the hot-blooded skin resting in them.
But I know that I'll be okay –
Because each day that passes is a day closer to when I can see him again,
And I know that those hands will be back to doing what they do best,
Holding mine.