Leaving Memories

Sometimes I think you’re the cure for every broken piece of me.
Your fingertips leave memories when you replicate the lifelines
on the palm of my hand, smooth the one-inch circular scars
that dimple my left knee, or trace the curves in the valley of
my back.
Most nights, your eyes stare into mine and I can see the depth of
how much you want to kiss away the tears I shed in the night,
my own fingertips wiping them away silently because I don’t
want you to hear me, but I secretly know you lie awake listening
for the slightest rustle of sheets and you wish by all the gods on this
earth that you could erase every minute of those harsh twenty-one
years and would split the sky to make me whole again.