when the scars are sweet

I am looking at the scars on the back of my hands,

the little ones,

a crescent across one knuckle,

nicked playing warrior with wooden swords.

The one at my fingertip,

from learning how to cut onions,

pulling swim goggles over watering eyes,

laughing around the tears.

When I tell her I know her like the back of my hand,

I am referring to this place,

all splinters and sweetness,

and a thousand other moments that have faded with time.

When I tell her I know her

like the back of my hand,

I wonder if she realizes

I don't know her at all.