marks

no broad chest or sparkling eye,
no soft lower lip
or sweaty neck
will fix this

there's no amount of you
to plaster over him,
dimple in my jeans,
wrinkle in my brow
that's become part of the nerve,
seeped into my way of feeling, moving, doing,
nestled right into the front of my mind,
popping up when I furrow,

and laying low when I flash you my smile
so you never notice.
the mark he left.