That Place

That place
is twice the size now than it was then
where her thumbprint used to be,
or at least I believed it was there,
a ghostly tattoo.
I was sure I could see it every day in the shower
when the morning sun lit on my skin
and showed pearly stretch marks.
It was in that place,
where my hipbone used to butterfly
into my pelvis.
I swore not to smudge
where her thumb was pressed
only once
and imagined the whorls revealed
under black dust.
I know its spot still
and tap it,
layering the lines over,
multiplying eleven years of fingers
print by print.

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