my arm looks like landscape,

i will kiss your scars

that is to say,

on some rain-drenched afternoon when gray becomes the verdict and all the world is holding its ears (but why should we ignore the cries of the sky when we beleaguer it so, i wonder)
i will gather to myself your wrist, your ankle, your thigh
lean over your stomach, or
press my fingers up your back and marvel momentarily at the cream/cocoa of your skin before my nails pick up tracks like needles can’t make and i travel the storylines you’ve spun,
press flushed flesh and furious wounds and tissue and the ghosts of memory

and i will lean over and touch my lips so lightly to the sutures and the imprints and the infections
i will taste old blood and new pain and fresh tears and empathy, i will
kiss your scars and tell you that you’re beautiful because of them

and i will mean it


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