Scar Tissue
The bed offers cold
where you used to lie
a chill that lingers
when dawn paints the sky.
Your abandoned chair
across from mine
is a constant reproach
and an unwelcome sign
of a love that died.
On outings with friends
I feel their pity
though I wear my best mask
and try to be witty.
The places I visit
are different and yet
something always reminds me
won’t let me forget
the love that died.
Time has its way with all wounds
I've discovered
granting healing to some
letting Death cure the others.
And with every new wound
the scar tissue spreads,
fibrous and nerveless,
‘til sensation is dead.
And it’s hard to say
if I fear this or not
maybe this ether
is what I have sought
all along.
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