It was a Sunday, and I remember every second of it.
Your mouth was moving, sounds were leaving your lips.
I took the sounds into my hands, translated them into sentences. I dissected them into words, I turned them over, then back around again.
I felt their texture on my fingertips, I reassembled the words into sentences, investigated them closely and read them out loud in my own mind.
I felt the sharp corners of each word cutting their way from my brain through to my heart.
Blood was dripping onto my hands as I sat there, drowning in the echo of your words in my body.