He had markings along his forearms and his neck, across the backs of his hands and into his abdomen. They weren’t scars, nor were they tattoos. They were stories.

When she first met him, she saw nothing unusual. He looked like an ordinary person. But as time passed and their hearts grew fonder, she could see a light glowing from within his blood, dancing and singing out to her.

His left bicep told her about a man who had fled his country, and could not go home and see his family until fifty years later, when the war was over. His wife had re-married. He didn’t recognize his children.

His back said the tale of a woman who had braved the seas to forge a better life for her family, a new life in her stomach. She had dreams and hopes and aspirations.

His collarbone contained the adventures of a girl who found that family was not blood, but who you chose to be with. Every day was his to make, every choice was his to decide.

There was nothing on his neck. It was a blank page, yet to be filled with ups and downs and lows and highs. But some nights if she squinted hard enough, she could see the glowing symbols start to form, and she learned about a boy who had stories in his blood that only his true love could read.