You used to see my wrist as an atlas, where pins had been stuck and lines drawn to show where we had travelled; mapping the places we had been. You traced the lines, counting them with the tips of your fingers. In ninety-two days, we had been to seven continents and swam in the oceans under the watchful eye of the sun. You used to see my wrist as a journey, something worth remembering. Now you see it as a battlefield, a fight I lost; but all I see are places I want to revisit, over and over again.
