Bruise

The bruises she leaves always turn yellow, eventually.

He’s tracing his fingers slowly around their circumference, tenderly following the crude line left by the sub dermal bleeding. Almost unnoticeable against the skin, a subtle shade of decay, a temporary feature. He’s staring hard, and sees that a gentle purple flower remains in the centre, the focal point of trauma blossoming outward across his skinny arm. He feels the pain.

Bright red lips shine so bright that he never sees her eyes.

Transfixed on the music of her voice and the saunter of her gait, the world blurs around her and caresses his feeble nature.

He’s driving his finger hard into the heart of a contusion, feeling the dull ache beneath as the weakened capillaries fall once more to his pressure. It will never be the same. Every bruise shall be different, he knows. But so long as skin is marked then she remains, if only for a little longer. He’s pushing harder still.