dragging a medicinal kiss over his bullet wounds. A souvenir from our time at war. “I relived that night every day for so long,” I’d said with strain. “Good came from it. Remember that. Hold on to it.” “I’ll never let it go,” I’d given my solemn oath, arching into his following affection. We had battle scars, some seen, others hidden in places only our love held directions to. Some wounds we’d inflicted on each other, and some had tagged along as baggage, a million tiny cuts given to us by our past
I mean I guess technically he was shot by a marine
