I pick his jacket up and move it on the railing so that it's resting in front of me, keeping my eyes on it as I play with the buttons pinned to it, the ID card dangling on its clip.

I want to know what it feels like, if the fabric us rough and starched or smooth and pliable. I want to know if his scent clings to it. Want to know what he scent is now. If it's changed, if he wears cologne. If he smokes enough now that the smell lingers.

Maybe I'll never know these things. Maybe I'm kidding myself that we can ever bring our bodies back.

I shift, sliding the short distance along the railing until I'm leaning into his side. It doesn't actually help much, but maybe he needs the contact as much as I crave it.