Second Chance

Lifting the hand,
Up and out of my pocket,
A piece of me remains behind–
The dry, red/black covering,
Of a scratched knuckle.

Wounds shrink,
Thoughts clear,
Pain itself
Fades,
Dull and distant.

With healing,
Will routine soon return?
Spinning the plates,
Of obligations
And requirements.

Or will a second chance,
Bring a new way?
Centered, attentive,
On the love which has healed
Much more than skin.

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