I call myself a man with open wounds, fresh air and sun fills up my entrails with love and loathe, blood rushing to the ends. I have no women to name these scars after and yet I have them evidently placed under my sleeve, that's where all of them left their slippery kisses hidden to reconcile with in times ahead. None of them returned. I drew a line every time she left me with a staying smile and then in no time I had too many to sustain. It was to remember the number of kisses I got in a lifetime, the number of women who left a part of their existence with me, the number of women who moved on without taking them back but it was too late to realize that my number of scars long proceeded the number of women who unloved me.
image - @Pinterest
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