It’s like moving mountains.

In the end I might manage,

but I can’t put you back

the same way you were before.

There will always be gaps,

and even filled with silver,

or gold,

they’re the evidence

of scars I made

on your skin and your bones.

Too deep and clear

for me to pretend they don’t exist

and too new

for you to forget them.

Quick poem in response to Daily Prompt: Mountains