The Surface Archive

The scar on my palm is the shape of a key I held too long. The key is gone. The palm remembers the pressure.

The callus on my thumb is the shape of a tool I never owned. The tool is gone. The thumb remembers the work.

The bruise on my ribs is the shape of a hand I do not recognise. The hand is gone. The ribs remember the holding.

The burn on my forearm is the shape of a stove I have never used. The stove is gone. The arm remembers the heat.

The cut on my shin is the shape of a curb I have never sat on. The curb is gone. The shin remembers the falling.

The ink on my finger is the shape of a word I did not write. The word is gone. The finger remembers the marking.

The shadow on the wall is the shape of a body I have never been. The body is gone. The wall remembers the standing.

The surface holds everything. The surface refuses nothing. The surface is not a door. The surface is not a room. The surface is not a home.

The surface is a surface. It holds what it is given. It gives nothing back.