I posted this about a day ago on my MySpace blog. Figured I post it here as well. Pretty raw. May take it down, may not.
Tattoos
Right arm's flower, immigrant
from another artist's mind,
token as monument,
trumping any first date's
offering of dead trinkets.
Those are sacrificed anyway
to your left arm's burning lotus
that hovers over a book
holding our already plotted fates.
The more foolish of us
stroke your arm, mistake
blood vessels for caligraphy
and still don't find our names
even out of wishful thinking.
Rubbing your shoulders,
I was enamoured by
the kissing fish floating
on your nape, belaboring
the obvious allure.
It made me more surprised
as the owl I found
over your breast
swiped at my hands.
Just another reminder:
Nothing I make of ink
will ever be added
to your ongoing story.
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