You left a bruise on my lip where your teeth gnashed and you growled and you stared into my soul tasting me into being. I think you were infatuated with me and wanted to ingest me. You wanted to take me inside of you and let your biology break me down into the empirical parts of my whole but I didn’t know if that was possible, and I didn't know if you would understand.

You left a bruise on my lip where we touched for the very first time and it aches, but not from pain. It aches for when you will kiss me again, when our mouths collide in an explosion of wonder and wanting to know another person: something tangible, a sense of an idea in your mind, turned into a clamor of color and sound and taste and touch and I think I know you from some place different. Maybe I knew you when we were stars, before our particles were rearranged and we turned to ash and skin and dinosaurs and the world.