Honeyed Bruise

You are the ache I choose, the bruise I hide
beneath a silk sleeve of something like grace.
I press it, softly, to remember the hour
your voice lowered the sky to a secret.
We traded names the way thieves trade keys,
quick, careful, gloved in a hush of heat.
Even now, the hallway keeps your echo,
a low ember in the ribs of the house.
Touch returns as rumor under my skin:
storm-light, smoke, a bitten peach.
Nothing about you was gentle, only precise.
Nothing about me was pure, only true.
I am sweeter where I hurt from you.
I am bright where you left me blue.