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by Carol Gabe

The tips of my fingers
trace your raised surface,
sometimes probing,
my heart racing,
searching for what was left behind,
lurking in your shadows.
Other times marveling
at your pale, pink color,
thin perfect lines
you have faded to,
a blush of deep rose
surrounding the port
of your wound,
grateful for your presence. 
I know you are there, always
my hand asleep
finds you again and again,
searching for what was left behind, 
memories now distant,
exquisite sensation,
innocent sexuality,
faith in old age.
I cherish you with love
but hold you in fear.
No badge of courage
to be proud of,
not yet, maybe never,  
searching for what was left behind,
pain shoots through your center
unexpectantly,  I catch my breath.  

This poem was prompted by the word, "Scar." Excerpts of Carol's poem appear in Sharon Bray's, When Words Heal.