A cryptic inscription carved
        into skin that wouldn’t go covered —
        as lasting as any ink,
        yet forgotten as soon as the hand
        quits its soft caress across
        her futile sacrifice.
        You have to show a feel for it.
        You have to know what to look for.
        You have to listen for word that can’t cease.
        You have to understand without pausing to ask,
        that choice is no accident.
        even after she has turned away
        and only wears it on her own decay,
        you have to carry the mark
        she has made, never smoothing
        it down. Never ceasing to heal.
        Never losing the metallic sting
        of love’s waste.

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