My lover left bite marks on my flesh, from my thumb to the bend of my right arm. Three near-phantom-faint patterns of her teeth. They fade as the day lengthens, and by tomorrow, they'll be bruises, which may or may not draw them brighter on my pale skin.
It rained most of this past weekend, cheering my twenty-seven years with drip-drop, splashes, and wind. But we were in Amherst, visiting Emily Dickinson's Homestead and driving through curving western Massachusetts' roads, and I was grateful for the rain, for the chill that brought my hands more eagerly into hers.