Bruises

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On my knees.

Shins.

Tops of my feet.

Every inch of my skin that bumped against the hard surface under you while I rode astride your beautiful cock (MY cock), is…

Marked.

Tender.

It’s not quite what I had in mind when I said, “Fuck me sore.”

(We always make our own way though, don’t we?)

I never gave much thought before to how easily I bruise.

(My skin is not the only thing that is so sensitive.)

And I hurt.  But I dread the healing.

(Perhaps I’m a masochist.)

Because your absence is palpable.  Yet on this mottled skin, your presence lingers, perceptible.  Unmistakable.

And in the time between our last goodbye and our next hello…

These small wounds help assuage the ache of missing you.

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