You are the scar in the form of a freckle
on my left pinkie,
the one that tells me people don't last forever but marks do.

How ironic that the symbolism of a mis-colored dot
of skin should be the reminder that you are now out of place in my world,
the wrong color, where your pigment discolored mine.

They tell me I wore my heart on my sleeve
but that would imply it's place on my person,
when the place it currently resides is between your fist.

You used to tell me your knuckles were swollen because you were beaten a time or two,
but really the pink puckers show more of your own fights and the matching
color of someone else's scar tissue.

I was told I deserved better than smoke filled hands
but I'm pretty sure what I really deserve is more than alcoholic lips.

They tell me if you have to ask if a story is true, its not.

I'm guessing in terms of a love tale, the same would apply to me and you.