Marks left upon your skin
from a lover,
a tattoo of his thirst.
Not, as you were once led to believe
a hallmark of disrespect
but rather a measure of his ardor.
Your thoughts form different conclusions now,
you listen to that long silent voice within
and feel the quickening of your pulse
as you think about his leavings,
the brands of his belonging.
You touch them when you are apart,
your finger tracing the outlines,
pressing down upon them,
remembering the passion,
the violence of desire.
You revisit the moment
and feel that ache anew
your thighs damp in anticipation
of bite and bruise
and you recall how you were a meal made
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