The Fine Lines

My fingers trace the faint relief,

a hidden story, past belief.

The skin pulled tight, a small design,

where surgeon's thread once made a line.

It’s not a wound, not anymore,

just memory of what came before.

A criss-cross pattern, fine and deep,

secrets that the body keeps.

Each tiny knot, a vow I made,

to mend the parts that start to fade.

A map of healing, stark and true,

a silent promise, seeing through.

This fragile web, a steady art,

holding together my broken heart.