Scar
I had seen the train leave the station.
I had said goodbye, for the last time.
A cold day in autumn, I decided to do some cleaning.
Putting summer away, preparing for winter.
I found a grey woolen hat, a hat she had used.
The scent, it was like holding her.
Red strains of hair, relit the flame.
The flame still lingering.
I could have learned to play 12 bar blues, that day.
I passed the fire station.
Not all fires can be extinguished.
I had planned to go walking in the park.
I changed my mind. I felt the need for a long walk.
That smell, still drove me slightly mad.
Not the same, when she no longer was within reach.
I felt happiness, happy to have known her.
Happy, with a wistful stain. A lonely stain. A vestige.
A scar; from better times.
*
I went for a walk.
Early evening.
I took the metro.
I looked around. Two boys, one girl.
Italian, well dressed.
The girl had straight facial features.
The girl had golden, brown hair.
The girl had red lipstick.
The girl had brown eyes.
The girl had a scar.
Left cheek. Horizontal. Long.
From the right side she was very pretty.
It looked like it was made with a sharp knife.
It looked like it was made on purpose.
I saw a story.
I didn’t see the story.
I saw other passengers look twice.
She might have been a victim.
She might have been the winner.
From the left side she fascinated me.
She carried a expression of confidence.
The boys had placed themselves at her right side.
A scar; so visible
*
Light and thunder.
I had unplugged the electronics.
A large armchair. Me and a little black cat.
Heavy rain. Rain hitting the windows. Rain hitting the metal hand rail on the porch.
Loud enough to scare the cat. It laid down next to me, seemed to take comfort in me being calm.
It licked my left hand, seemed to appreciate that I didn’t try to comfort her.
I read a book. I had to stop reading it.
Some stories hit you. This story hit me like a fist to my belly. Hard.
Some stories hit you like a fist, a fist hitting a soft spot.
Some stories are difficult to carry. Some stories are hard to tell.
Some stories scare you. Some stories leave scars.
Some stories hit you, so hard.
This was a story, like that. I put the book down.
A girl once told me a story. A story like that.
It was painful, to listen to her.
It was painful, just listening to.
A story I have promised, not to tell.
A scar that is hard to see.
A scar that is hard to live with.
A psychic wound.
A scar; so hidden.
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