Fading Map

The raised line on my wrist, a faint white scar,

a map of where I’d fallen, not too far.

Months have passed since the sharp, quick sting,

now it’s a phantom itch, a gentle thing.

I rub it idly, almost unaware,

this ghost of pain, a presence in the air.

It isn't hurt, not truly, not the same,

just a reminder, whispering its name.

Like a story told too often, losing bite,

but still insistent, through the quiet night.

Proof of mending, a slow, deep repair,

but still a prickle, always lurking there.