Scars

He told me with such certainty that it was going to leave a scar. Still I wasn’t convinced. Perhaps I was just hoping that someone so seemingly sure could be wrong about something. But after weeks and weeks of an open wound he was right. I kept taking photos to measure the progress. Fixated on its marginal improvements. Sending it out to any available audience, seeking the answer I was aiming to hear but isn’t that often the case? Months passed and now there’s a dark smudge right where my thumb connects to the rest of my hand. Not sure what I could have done differently. A familiar train of thought. I suppose it’s unsightly which wouldn’t be worth noting except for last summer. You and I going on and on about hands, mostly me. Talking about my next tattoo like I had ever really been sure of something so permanent. I must have known or had a feeling. Not the kind you get from holding a crystal or burning something to make the room smell of something other than your thoughts. I mean I must have known the way we are born knowing. The feeling that comes from your gut or however you want to describe it. I knew you knew we knew. There’s no hiding from it. What’s left of the burn. A shadow a bruise a harsh measure of time passing. Not all wounds are designed to heal but please tell me there’s no trace of it from where you’re standing.