Expensive bruises on your hips from the giver on the street, cheap beneath your eyes but stained nevertheless.
They broke blood vessels like pomegranate seeds between their teeth but without the burst of juice, or the bittersweet taste of summer.
Convincing songs of pleasure fell from pink lips, hand in hand with their exaggerated writhing.
They're out the door before the end credits of modern family, green lining their pockets and a gun cocking smirk.
You're in love with the smell: cigarettes and cheap liquor. They've left their scarf on the bedside table in place of the lamp.
You wish they'd left their number in case you need another mindless dig of nails into someones skin, or pink cheeked neighbours.
You wish they'd left their number. They broke your lampshade.
