Fingertips brush the hollow

Fingertips brush the hollow,

a soft dip of shadow and skin,

a silent center I hardly know,

a quiet map I rarely trace.

It holds no story, no scar,

just the ghost of what I was,

a faded imprint pressed

beneath layers of flesh and time.

I trace its edges slow,

curious for what isn’t there,

a place that held nothing but breath,

and now just stillness,

folded into the curve

of my own skin’s landscape.