His Identity

I suddenly longed to have his mark, his fingerprint – not just an reproduced image as on a driver’s license, but an actual print, his skin’s inky kiss on paper.

If I could have it – oh how I craved – then I could examine it, trace the loops and whorls with my hungry eyes; learn the intricate diagram of his identity.  

Somehow that would satisfy, albeit temporarily, my painful thirst to have him near to me, to be with him.  It may be in the smallest of means, my way to hold him close, to see him. I thought it could possibly dissipate the continuous aching for him; it would be my link, the connecting silver thread to my far-away love, and provide me with some comfort.