She is curious about your markings,
wants to know where they are from.
Wants to know which hurt the most?
Which took the longest? Her line of
questioning should be familiar,
you wear your story on your skin.
Years ago you were a blank canvas,
then voice found its way to ink
and now you are ink god, confessor,
work in progress. Author, painter
and commander of ink on your body.
You are an architect co-writing a
story on a patchwork of skins we
tell together, but separately. This
woman from the Midwest, she
wants to know more. She asks
Do you remember your first time?
and this is when you realize she is
telling you about her skin, telling
you about her markings. So you
listen to what she isn’t saying, with
eyes that avoid yours and skin
well hidden under clothes hanging
loose on her weary frame. She
gives nothing away. Her markings
involve pain, but no ink. This is not
the story she wants to tell, the chronicle
of bad choices and desperate cling,
of lovers who love inadequately.
So you answer each question
delicately, knowing her fragile
ears are drowning with a truth
that threatens to own her. You
look straight ahead, knowing
her eyes are always close to
bursting and give her a kindness
she might recognize from the days
when she was a blank canvas.
And when a text message
unnerves her so that she has to go,
you finally look into her eyes and
speak clearly You take care now,
and lift your glass to her as she goes.
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