Cicatrix

Blood the same brews thick wire around the masses of men;

Extraction will prove that I am his.

Parallel only by a rhythm,

My heart did not drip with his likeness but it burned for his affection.

Red-stained cotton is a souvenir to be treasured;

A relic of two cuts done by one touch.    

Now I see him in my bruises.

His reflection in the purple smudge gives me comfort.

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