White striations stack up on skin
neatly horizontal parallel lines,
your corrugated left arm that bears witness
to a right handed brain and I'd
forgotten that as I see you, as you see me,
and I didn't know you'd kept a piece of me.

How could I have known that you'd be casual,
twirling that piece around your index finger,
slinging it over your shoulder as a summer jacket,
not needed for warmth, or that I'd feel it.
There's a tattoo on my **** that used to spell out your name,
and now I wonder if you can still picture it.