Speak to me
softly: whispered words,
too timid for the light
of day; the hushed syllables
of silly love talk,
through kiss-swollen lips;
the sighs that should be
imperceptible, but your bare chest
against my back betrays you with
every breath.
You bury your face in my hair,
clutching the scent of you trapped
there. You always needed to know
you had left your mark. Claimed me
in some base, yet powerful way.
And, in the same perverse fashion,
I loved it. Craved it.
Needed it, like a needle
in the crook of my arm. The bruised
fingerprints of our love lingering
there long after you
are gone.


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