Narrow Margin

- in those moments, it shines. The nostalgia of an upside down world glinting up through hourglasses of years, a mark impressed upon flesh; a scar harbouring simple childhood games inside a jagged line now faded. Occasionally it flares, reddens from a twist of skin uncomfortable, or in the tightness of early morning dressing; the twinge acts as an echo, a ripple, a call from back then, years ago, an era lost like sand through fingers sweaty from summer heat, lemonade with ice cubes clinking. The scar, the mark, that narrow margin of error, a Faultline physical memory running like a border along my skin. And you were there, holding my hand - in those moments, it shines.