The shreds of my clothes from last night litter the path of our feral abandonment. The signs left in the yard, on the front door, the glasses left to shatter in our need, fine scratches left by my nails on the corner wall and countless other small to large points to loudly declare the steps we passed.
But none of them compare to the marks left on my body. I can’t even remember exactly when or how each was made. Yet finding each one is like a personal treasure trove of passion and I smile.
Because I am yours.
PS – I took another shirt for my collection.