Navel Gazing

The towel falls, and there it is,

that small, forgotten hollow,

a soft dent in the skin,

where once a cord held fast, then gone.

It's just a mark, a strange

old buttonhole, stitched tight,

where lint can always cling,

a tiny, secret night.

Sometimes, I trace the edge,

a pale rim of a forgotten pool.

It knows more than I do,

a quiet, inward pull.

It holds a quiet history,

a map of where I've been.