I had a bruise on my wrist, initially prefectly four sided, from one of the links in my bracelet watch. Little rounded, black and cream art deco squares. Lined up with one, on the side of my wrist, a maroon shape that has spread and  blurred, pressed against the bone. I didn't notice it happen, the metal forced against my skin.

On the back of my other hand, a long dark rectangle, half way down the fourth Metacarpal, intruding on the interplay of bone and vein. I do remember that one. Door handle. I'm so unbalanced, clumsy.

I wish they were yours, these marks. I wish you had given them to me. So I could run my fingers over their colour, press into the tenderness of them and know you'd been there. Feel your touch linger on me. My skin would be a diary, a calendar, mark the days since I was claimed. The change and shape of the memory of you  would blur and spread and fade until I could feel it and see it no more. Until I was new again, and waiting.