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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.
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