The white memories of cuts that trace your skin were never meant to be satisfying. You're supposed to look at those constant reminders and feel shame. But you don't. All you see are the textures of release. Trees are covered in scrapes and cuts and scratches, memories of weathering the storm. Trees don't feel shame, and neither should you.
I'm a temporary person.
The filler who plugs a gap until the right piece comes along.
The oval piece for the round hole.
I settle into my role like a sigh.
I hoped I would be enough for you, perhaps you'd not notice the deficit.
But you will, they all do.
Update: You did.