Just Above the Eye

"What's that?" you asked, a small, blunt spear.

Your finger, tiny, drawing near

my left brow's edge, where skin is thin.

A place I'd never thought to begin

to search for stories. Just a spot.

A tiny dot, forgotten, got

its moment then. A raised brown fleck,

a secret map around my neck

of memory, I guess. Or just

a little patch of ancient dust

the sun once left. It's always there,

a tiny knot of absent care.