Flesh Remembers

Silken hands glide across her flesh in greedy hunting.
The heart welcomes the caress, blinded by the love it craves yet,
It is the flesh.

The flesh knows that behind these hands and their hidden behaviors
of gentle touches, is pain and torment—a bleeding for love—and sacrifice.
But it is the flesh,
Oh, what of skin?
For baring scares that shall not soon forget of what hands do when gentleness has run dry and hunger settles in.

Scars tells stories,
and flesh,
the wearer of memories.
Ever writing tales of old and of new despite the markings it lay in its wake.
The flesh knows what the heart does not.
Love is an inking of the skin, burned, not to be forgotten.