Scars

Scars

You told me a story
of a broken leg, once.
I told you a story
of a broken heart, once.
We never left it at that
but we both knew
we should have.

I could feel you
and your words
as they rumbled inside
of your hollow chest,
like clothes inside the dryer.
You spoke deep and thick;
an internal lullaby.
We never left it at that
but we both knew
we should have.

Did I collect each of your breaths?
Did you know I wasn’t sleeping?

And it was slow, but it was steady:
The takeover;
the surrender.
I could pick out the sound
of your footsteps.
That was probably when
I should have made it stop:
when I felt that familiar twang
of life inside my deflated lungs.

When it knocks, do you open the door?
So we did.
So that the story
of a broken bone
of a broken heart
would be weaved delicately into the now.

Did I pay the slightest attention?
I was conscious only of the way your skin
felt heavy and warm
on top of mine.
A northwestern summer night.
And scars that we retold.