Still.

I try to forget
how just the touch
of your fingertips
on the nape of my back
sends chills that run all the way
down, to the place you know best.
Not because I don't want to remember, but
because, I'm afraid, I'll always be back at this place.
Me, here.
And you,
all
the way
over there.
Wondering, if you're thinking of me, the way. .
I still, 
still. .
still. . 
can't help thinking of you.