MAYBE on the lips? Because there I like to interpret bitterness.

Or on the arm? A pair that is not long enough, but enough
to always embrace, dim, nervous.

Or on the neck? The circular ladder, like a rubber tree, and
I was a tapper who could not bring heart to wound there.

Or on the forehead? A thin line of hair, always silent.

"Ah, do not have much guessing," you say, "let me read it,
The old verses of poetry, which I have always kept secret ...