You have three scars on your left hand, right at the heal of your thumb. They stand like walls, elevated from your skin, and in their succession a story is told. I can’t remember now if they are from the time you fell off your bike as a kid, and for the life of me I’m not sure I even remember the direction your scars are going, running parallel like highway lanes down the side of your thumb, or if they were perpendicular to your body’s lines. I thought I’d never forget the way those scars felt when I’d grab your hand and run my thumb over top of them. I thought, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that those scars were forever engrained into my memory. It had to have been more than a thousand times I let my thumb graze your scar. I liked touching it, it was like I was healing you in some broken, twisted way. And I don’t remember anymore if the thumb nail at the end of that same finger is the one you don’t like because it grew in wrong after it fell off when you were young, or if that is the other hand. I guess this means I’m moving on, I guess it means I’m letting go, and to be quite honest, I hadn’t let my mind wander back to you in a while. But today I looked down at my own hands, and I studied them, and I clasped them together in search for a spark that would remind me what it was like to wrap my fingers in yours, but there was no spark to be found.
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