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Listen. It was about 8 pm last night.

You were lost in some deep philosophical meanderings

creating art with your fingers on me when

I stumbled upon a forgotten scar on your back.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Some surgery scar…” you responded

still distracted by that line that you

were drawing over my lips.

I discovered that my right hand’s index finger fits perfectly in it.

The exact length, depth, breadth.

And even though it means nothing, really, much like this poem

I want you to know that a part of me fits perfectly in you.