Poetry: Hickies



Sometimes I miss

The wine colored stains you left on my skin

As my neck cringes in protest

The blood vessels on my collar bones


Leaving violet and violent galaxies across my chest


As I watch the purple fade to yellow

Only to fade back into my bones

Fingers tracing where my bruises once were

As if they were the last I had of you


But then again

What kind of a grown man

Still gives hickies


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