Wind on Skin

A wealth of memories, frittered
carelessly, prodigal child
Fingers burnt by touching your skin
I watch them turn to ash
and scatter in the nonchalant wind.

She cares not for my pain
though healed in parts, scabby
She picks at it, intermittently
and I indulge her,
How foolish, you say
Maybe.

Blow hot, tormentor, blow
over the raw skin, but let it be slow
so I can feel the peeling
Blow cold, nurturer, blow
over trapped time, so I can know
when began the healing.