Sometimes, I struggle to remember your face and how it felt to touch.
Hands extended, my fingers trace your now invisible features.
A whispy, fragile-white dandelion, blowing in the wind.
My hands have aged 11 years now, the skin that once enveloped the fingertips that wiped away your ashen tears, has been replaced so many times since then.
A replaced memory.
Of how your face felt.
In my hands.