Things Unseen

I could feel
this bruise on my knee
before it blossomed.

That spot had a familiar tenderness,
a pain I could forget
until reminded
by a brush of the hand
or a bend of the knee.
But afterward, it lingered.

You could not understand
my ability to see something
that was not yet present.
You could not understand
how a feeling
could make something real.

When the skin turned colors—
greens, purples, blues
of various hues—
you said, now I see the pain
that you felt before.

There are so many bruises
waiting to emerge
and every time you misunderstand
or misrepresent or misinterpret
it is like that brush of a hand,
reminding me of things unseen.