he never asked me what I was looking for,
nor did he ever brush the hair from my eyes,
but he breathed new life into my lungs,
& I must agree that it was enough--

the sheets are cold,
but the Book is worn & fading.
the wine glass is stained,
but the pages are talking again.
it was enough, enough--

as I outline the traces of the scar you gave me,
I come to the point of either breaking it in two,
or allowing it to stay,
& eventually fade,
until all it can do is glimmer,
whisper:
*"you were enough."