Love notes.
Words are flimsy, and I'll never find a note from you, on a dresser or table, no saccharine expression will pour from your fingers onto paper for me.
You write your notes in lines against my skin. Your fingertips etched into the porcelain around my throat.
You bring me flowers that bloom in bruises where your teeth have found tender parts.
Your love song is a chorus of filthy words and my breathless thank you in return.
Love notes, perfected.
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