It’s a beautiful thing, to find someone whose fingers fit yours perfectly. To know that someone’s hand was crafted in such a way that their fingers fill the spaces between yours. That someone was made for you in particular, to hold. The sad part is that when those fingers are absent, when they’ve gone somewhere new, the spaces between yours seem to be wider, and more alone, and more empty than they ever were before they knew was it was like to be held.
(Every part of me is missing you. Even my fingers are sad.)