Tattoo
Needle punctures skin.
Needle. Punctures. Skin.
Nee·dle·punc·tures·skin
Pain with a purpose. Indelible memory captured in time. The wounds not knowing whether they conceal, celebrate, or represent.
If you die before me, I will have an open
wound, unable to heal until I find you…
at our place.
We make a pact. Neither of us has a tattoo.
Whoever dies first, the other paints a
placeholder for the remaining years. The mark
hides the open wound.
Choosing a tattoo means sharing a
celebration. Maybe a quote from Yeats. Five
words you incorporate into our wedding
vows. Written in script to reflect the delicacy
of the prose.
Murmuring softly lip to lip
We lie in bed under the covers, whispering
secrets. I inhale your warm skin. Faint smell
of chamomile and apricot with the wild,
earthy notes of shea butter.
A heady blend of your
unique liquor.
location.
Our grand, oak tree at home—a wise
centurion with its outstretched,
welcoming arms.
A place to spread ashes. A place where we
join hands
once again.
Cardinals, blue jays, black squirrels, and
pileated woodpeckers tap, sing, and tut here.
Choosing a tattoo means imagining the
barren future.
What if the tree no longer stands?
Earth coordinates in degrees, minutes and
seconds.
45° 10’ 7’’ N
74° 38’ 60” W
Printed in bold type, it represents a clear
destination for our journey in an
uncertain world.
Choosing a tattoo means desperately not wanting to make a choice.
If my god is listening, I beg her to please
spare me this rite of passage.
I’ll wait for you by the oak tree, my love.
And wipe away your tattoo with
heart·beat·kisses.
