the smooth places

“i have a scar,” you said,
grasping my wrist,
the upward slither of your t-shirt
arrested temporarily.
(i kept going)
“yes you do,” i replied,
tracing it with trembling fingers.
“it’s a sad story,” you continued,
and you told it, simply.
my eyes ached with unspilled tears
for you
and for my own scars,
which i could not show you
(but longed to).

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