My palms cupping a new book like a foreign breast. Fingers tenderly leafing through pages, sights engrossed in words that tumble with ease into others like old lovers. My favourite pasttime is a forgotten intimacy. Clutching too at my Darling’s wool cardigan, I am trying to inhale his residual scent. I will dream tonight of sneezing, and lips that say “God bless you” before burrowing into the nape of my neck.