There are fine scars across my back
that belong to someone else; every now and then
when she turns from a mirror hung just so,
the lilt of her lip remembers a smile.
I speak to her once and again, sentences whole
and without sound; the deadfall of yesteryear.
We feel the push of breath in an answer,
what words are there tangle the distance in between.
A mirror hung just so catches a thought of smile
and remembers the involuntary pull of muscle.
I taste the stir of conversation across my skin;
silence settles there in the cool drifts of its tone.
Hands climb a ladder of scars, hip to nape;
fingers trace each rung, draw questions in sweat.
A whist of words ravel in this separation of air;
echoes whisper one to another the burden of reply.