Looking at the four-by-six print of you in the sweatshirt I gave you when Clemson won the Natty, I sense again our distance. We were young when I took this—miles younger, years nearer, pulses dearer. Alone, yes, I get by. But my fingertips remember brushing your chin when you’d shaved and when you hadn’t for five days. My touch, stirring up the aftershave smell of rainforest loam. This glossy print emits neither your touch nor your fragrance, but I still stretch out my finger, try to click you like an icon for an app that will somehow bring you back.
By Amy Ballard