Memory Beneath Skin

Fingertips trace a line unseen,

a scar beneath the tangled green

of hair that hides what time erased,

a mark where pain once left its taste.

My neck remembers, though I don’t,

a shuttered door, a ghost that won’t

fade in the quiet fold of flesh,

where memory and body mesh.

That sudden jolt—an ache unfurled,

a silent crack beneath the world,

a language written deep inside,

a place where mind and flesh divide.