Scar Tissue

I wait beneath the weight of hollow years,

the silence burns a prayer into my chest.

Your shadow quivers where the light appears,

I ache in faith, though faith is put to test.

I trace the echo of your turning face,

each time you flee, I find no ground to stand.

The past still hums—a ghost I can’t erase,

a trembling heart still reaching out a hand.

You hide behind your walls of hardened glass,

pretending you were never made to need.

While I am caught in memories that pass,

their thorns still teaching me how hearts can bleed.

The nights collapse with whispers of your name,

and hope becomes both comfort and disease.

I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean the same

as finding peace—it asks a harder peace.

I see the child in you that never spoke,

the small defense that shields you from my care.

The boy in me still breathes beneath the smoke,

unlearning how to vanish into air.

If grace is measured by the ones who stay,

then mine was forged in storms I could not leave.

I pray the wind will bend your ribs someday,

and teach you how the broken still believe.

Because this bond was never born of choice,

but tethered in the hunger of the scar.

I hear redemption trembling in your voice,

but silence always tells me where we are.

You fear that love will drown you where you stand,

while I fear losing what was never mine.

Each moment drips like blood between my hands,

as faith and grief braid tight around the spine.

I’ve watched your eyes turn distant, cold with doubt,

but underneath I feel the buried prayer.

There is no healing if we cast it out,

so I remain, though absence fills the air.

I can’t repair the child who hides in you,

but I can hold the ache without demand.

If miracles are what the broken do,

I’ll wait for God to place them in your hand.

This scar—our mirror—shines where pain had fed,

reminding me that loss can still renew.

And even if the path is lined with dread,

I’ll walk it still, until it leads to you.

RSP

…

DCG