I run my hand along the traces of him.
I feel the blood rush through my skin.
I grip my shoulder where your head once rested.
I tear at my soul just to feel connected.
I feel the rage I should have felt eleven months ago,
I feel the desire I ought to forgo.
You were the best of all the others,
Their traces remain, but they weren't even lovers.
And neither were we, almost but not quite,
But you were the closest I have been to the shame free light.
I want to be clean of the stain he left,
I want to be clean of the desire I regret.
But as I look at this mark that you left on me,
I am not so sure I want to be free.