There is one scar, running across all the dimensions of my existence. A scar left by a wild river, streaming recklessly and running over every wall in its way. A river now so ancient, engraved in memory as a resplendent torrent of summer, summer when the sun shines high, and the mornings are hopeful. This scar knows mornings. It was born in the mornings, in someone’s bed. It was dreamed to the deepest depths of feeling, and carved by the poems it birthed. This river was built so strong by metaphors and exquisite words, eroding the limits of my love and pushing them further away, pouring over the edges and collapsing on and on in careless abandon. It taught me… there is no limit to my love.
This is a scar born of insanity, a child of passion and lust combined with hope and dreams. But it’s also a scar born of love, of my soul’s capacity to extend loving to another, sprung from the simplest gestures – a kiss on the forehead, a breath on the back of my neck.
The scar is etched in the body, heart and skin, etched with warmth through the cold nights and mornings, and the tools were the tips of his fingers. A sight of that face, a recalling of those mornings, of those poems, of that foolish naïveté that was so hopeless, and so brave. In those memories, my chest swells and tangles and seeks to implode in a time in the past, when the body was close and warm next to my bare skin, and the kisses were the texture of rose petals. Those memories of a body carved from soft tender marble, flowering in a wild mane of sunlight hair, hair let down and free… on occasions, tickling my cheeks and back, lending itself to my lustful grip. A body like a luminous riot.
And it goes on…
The scar is etched in the psyche. Collapsing the borders of my loving, loving for no reason at all, my soul learned the price of boundlessness. Inexhaustible love leads to deep healings, leaving behind scars; and unrequited love inscribes itself on the insides of the inner being, testimonies of fearlessness and surrender. Unrequited love, blind and groundless, was what I birthed – when the sun is low and the air is empty, city half-asleep and the street-lamps tired in the shimmer of early winter morning, the soul is too soft not to love. And the body makes love too, slowly. Unspoken withins and loving touches are the deadliest combination.
The scar goes deep to the source of my life, the abyss of my soul. A sharp fissure that pierces through fleeting blisses and penetrates me with the knowing of my power. The sense of the ending shattered me, the ending itself left me numb, but the hurt balances the ecstasy – ecstasy like a diamond born under high-pressure, when the experience is consumed and birthes a heavenly scar. Ecstasy in the imprint of love left on another, even if unknowingly.
I loved him.