We sit side by side,

a sheet of paper between us

like a Rosetta Stone

in search of a language

that can translate

our thoughts and sentiments.



I could listen

to your hands all night,

to the patient hiss

of your pencil as you reveal

another layer of scar tissue.

Scars which were once

indigenous to my heart.

Scars which have been

passed down for generations.

Scars which I have deepened,

washed, and redressed countless times

redefined as works of art

by your sympathetic touch.