Your fingertips

Your fingertips left tracks along my body as they moved, sensually but swiftly across my skin. Tracks that, to this day, still smolder and smoke, long after the scent of your own skin has vanished. Where are your scars, I wonder? Do you wear them proudly upon your skin? Or do you treat them, still, as fresh wounds, bandaging, cradling, nurturing their surface? Who sees them, I wonder. Do you?