The Ghost of a Cut

The line on my arm,

a pale riverbed,

the surgeon's careful mark.

Dormant for years,

a quiet testament to being split open,

then sewn back wrong, or right.

Today, the air shifts.

A prickle starts low,

a phantom limb of old pain.

It's not hurting, not truly.

Just an echo,

a tiny, electric current

running the length of the scar.

A reminder that closed isn't gone.

Healing, they say, is a process.

It's also

this endless, quiet itch.