Naivete

I bear your mark on me.

It doesn’t hurt anymore, but I still feel it. A scar that is more than physical, worn on my shoulder for the world to see. It did hurt, a delicious ache that kept you with me… on me… inside me 24/7, at work, at sleep, at play… You probably forgot it, but I couldn’t if I wanted to.

I wonder if you know what it feels like to have someone that close. I wonder if you can fathom how that mark penetrated my heart. I certainly didn’t realize it at the time. It happened slowly, incrementally… Every time my hand distractedly wandered to that place near my neck and felt the bruising, the scab, the swelling. And it made me smile. And it made me vulnerable.

I’m not sure what to do with that feeling now. I’m not sure I would change it if I could. I can only wish that the vulnerability had been acknowledged, even cherished, and that I had felt protected, even for just a little while.

Because whatever happens between us, or has already happened, that mark now has a life of its own, to be explained to any new lover, or even to a discerning casual observer. For me to glimpse at odd moments in the mirror. Should it represent my naiveté? My vulnerability? My stupidity? Or can it stand for something better? I would really like that.