Between the fore and the middle
I have a beauty mark,
a brown spot in a pink cradle
removed from the light.
If I spread out my fingers
I can see my secret
forgotten often and yet reminded
each time I slip on my ring
or wash each  crease and crinkle
of sunless skin.

It's a feeble little keepsake really,
not one part of it sparkles
as a gem handed down and tucked away.
It doesn't rest upon my chest,
it doesn't have the dark lines of a
tattoo,
its just an inanimate mark
on the map of my skin, unamed
undiscovered and in limbo,
floating inbetween
waves of hello and farewell.

I can make whatever I want of it
like the books I read
and the photo on the refridgerator,
or the endless beating of my heart that
on some nights won't let me sleep.

At once both a sign of something precious
and something irrevelent.
So much or so little
All that meaning I could or won't give.