I have a wound that was so deeply cut and painful, so sharp and real, a wound forged from the deepest desire and consuming fire...a wound that began to form when I first saw you as lover. It etched across my skin, pink, at first, as I realized that I would have you and lose you. One came with the other as inevitably the thunder follows the lightening.

And lose you I did, and the wound dug deeper and turned redder. The pain pulsed, overwhelmed and threatened to devour as you pushed me away. I thought I would bear the scar forever, a constant ache...but you pushed me away, and away, and away and then - at some point - I was away.

Is it worse to bear the scar of emotions so intense, or for the scar to heal so completely that you only remember in wisps the touch of lips to yours, the electricity of body against body, the union of minds and words and wit?

For my scar has faded so that I am left with only a sense of sadness, of loss, that I no longer understand the sharpness of the emotions that formed it to begin with. And if I sat next to you at that same bar, my hand on your leg, looking into you, would the hidden wound rip open and bleed my emotions, my desire, fresh and new, upon the dark floor?

Or - worse yet - would I feel nothing but the slightest tinge of what was, what was never to be, and what now, is not?