By Shrutee Choudhary

I look down at my own hands 
and they seem alien to me, without your fingers
filling up the spaces between mine. 
I feel empty in the curves of my waist,
the small of my back, the parting of my lips. 
In all the places you had touched me, 
you are etched. 
My skin had been like sand, perhaps,
that now I'm marked from head to toe 
in your footprints. 
Like mountains without valleys 
or like a lone piece of a puzzle, 
I can't seem to make sense without you. 
I miss you in all of my hollows. 
So much so, that slowly, I'm becoming a void, entirely. But that's a good thing, I guess. 
Maybe as a void, I'll feel whole once more.

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