I think of the scar on your wrist,
How you quietly hide it sometimes.
It’s an old injury,
Floating like a soft island on the smoothness of your skin.
Sometimes I try to take in my lips,
Encompassing it and making it mine,
Wishing I could be your balm.
But that is only the hurt I can see.
I am lost in describing you,
I think about the other scars you have,
The ones I will never know.