As we lay together with your head on my chest, I run my thumb on the skin over your clavicle where my teeth impressed a crater. It’s swollen. It’s blue; no it’s purple; I can’t figure. But it looks like a scar on your otherwise flawless skin.
“It must hurt,” I announce into the void, looking at you sheepishly and apologetically.
You look at me, smile, and proceed to tell me that it does hurt sometimes but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
You tell me that it’s a shame that we can only meet so rarely. You tell me that you observe these marks in mirror before bathing and that they are strangely reassuring. You tell me that you want the artist in me to treat your body as a canvas and color it with our love. You tell me that these scars remind you that I am real; that we are real; that this relationship is real.
I look at you misty-eyed. I’m at a loss of words. You see the struggle. It fills you with pride for some discerning reason. You bite my chest. I shriek! “Words don’t mean anything anymore, Mr. Writer,” you conclude.