A bloom on my arm a soft aching hue

A bloom on my arm, a soft, aching hue,

a thumbprint of life where old pain once grew.

Remnants of contact, a fleeting embrace,

a reminder of moments, a silent trace.

In the mirror, it lingers, a shadow's own brand,

etching the story of a careless hand.

I stare at the surface, the skin tells the tale—

a bruise that reminds me, of times I might fail.