Heart Tattoo

The heart tattoo on her wrist is
one I've learned. It pokes out from
long sweater sleeves, colors her
glowing skin, covers choice scars.
She makes no attempt to
hide, when I press my lips to it, or
caress it with my thumb. But
had she not done it to herself, I
would think it meaningless. Words
do not comfort, skin does not
hold its warmth. She smiles, and
it is hollow, though she assures it
was never my doing. A scar running
down the middle is jagged and
breaks it.