Having Left

I expected regret

to rise like a bruise,

black as a berry below

kissed skin. What's left

instead is yellow-edged,

too sallow for sunlight,

an ancient injury healing

where lips had just been.

Isn't this translucence,

how we see what's broken

without breaking skin?

It feels like opening,

bloodless, sanguine,

not a cut but a key,

not a spill but invitation.

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