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Updated: May 12, 2025
And such sweet I got of it you could never guess. There, black and blue, was the imprint of your fingers your fingers, Chris, your fingers. It was the touch of you made visible. It was there a week, and I kissed the marks oh, so often! I hated to see them go; I wanted to rebruise the arm and make them linger. I was jealous of the returning white that drove the bruise away. Somehow, oh!
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