Every time I want to ache
I find your mark again.
Branded with that first touch,
first kiss, first breath upon my neck.
And when he holds me I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
As though somehow he’ll know that his arms
are your arms;
that his heart beating against my back
is your heart, miles away,
forgetting me.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 1:37 AM UTC
Every time I want to ache
I find your mark again.
Branded with that first touch,
first kiss, first breath upon my neck.
And when he holds me I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
As though somehow he’ll know that his arms
are your arms;
that his heart beating against my back
is your heart, miles away,
forgetting me.