Marks....

  It is late, and finally I am in that brief peaceful time before I go to bed. I  head to the bathroom,  I remove my shirt and stare at myself in the mirror, and the reminders of you left on my body.

  My shoulders are covered with fiery red marks. Not your standard high school hickeys but actual hard bite marks purple in a few places but mostly that screaming, crying red.  Bites (the kind that lets you know it really hurt )when they happen are almost too much.  I am on the edge of too much and not enough and you take more from me with the bite than the creamy whiteness of my skin.

  It is surprising to me that I am so fascinated by these marks. So entranced by them. I am cataloging them and memorizing them, knowing that I carried away the more concrete reminder of our time together. You get only the memory; I get the marks, which I can look at any time. That is my special possession, but you know I am not possessive; you have only to ask to see them.

 I am tired of the word "mark" so I pause here and look for an alternative; my Thesaurus says thus " a device pointing distinctly to origin of ownership" and think that perhaps the word "mark" is a good one after all. I think I will use the word over and over again after all, but you know why don't you? 
 
We  love the bite; it is the most direct expression of who we are, within that I feel the ecstasy of need and fulfillment  and I know finally I am almost home.