The black ink etched into your skin
is washed out, yet I can still
find in it a passionate desire for
a time
for a place
somewhere else than here.
No — the edges are not sharp nor
is the image entirely discernible
without meticulous examination
but I can still see the
place on your body where she
deftly imprinted her permanence
where she injected
color into your being.
Now all that remains
is a patch of skin irritated by
your visits to the removal parlor,
suggests
a yearning to move beyond
what once was.
And I am comforted in knowing
the once jet black ink has
faded to a dull grey. But tattoos were
made to last, and I fear that
ink runs too deep
to ever fully evanesce.
is washed out, yet I can still
find in it a passionate desire for
a time
for a place
somewhere else than here.
No — the edges are not sharp nor
is the image entirely discernible
without meticulous examination
but I can still see the
place on your body where she
deftly imprinted her permanence
where she injected
color into your being.
Now all that remains
is a patch of skin irritated by
your visits to the removal parlor,
suggests
a yearning to move beyond
what once was.
And I am comforted in knowing
the once jet black ink has
faded to a dull grey. But tattoos were
made to last, and I fear that
ink runs too deep
to ever fully evanesce.