She says she can remember the scent of my skin.
On her knees, face resting against my stomach, I drown my fingers in the soft curls of her hair and ask her to draw the memory for me.
I listen, but my mind is on the language; learning to see her through familiar eyes, my gaze is tinted by self-inflicted cynicism. My touch has been forced to learn a new dialect, a deviation from the vernacular of innocence she knows so well. We had lost touch with the indulgences embraced for so long; I needed to touch the spaces it once belonged to, run fingers over ragged edges, and learn her anew.
Sometimes re-learning is a blessing and a curse.