All things fade
Rain washes away the deeds done
Somewhere on the earth, in the trees
On a winding path, where the fireflies
Like failing Christmas lights flicker.

Her hand in mine, fingers interlocking in a position that seems so natural to us now. In the heat of summer they stick, our palms sticky from sweat as the sun beats down. But I don't mind, as long as her hand is in mine.

Her smile as she laughs at one of my stupid jokes, and I smile back. My arm round her waist as we cuddle up in the warmth of my bed, outside the trees turn all shades of autumn and slowly deposit leaves onto my driveway. But it's okay, as long as next to me she lays.

Her cheeks, rosy from the cool of the air as we lay together under the stars. I gently wrap my scarf around her neck, shivering a little at my own loss of warmth. But I don't care, as long as it is my clothes she wears.

Her eyes, fluttering peacefully as she naps next to me. It has been months apart, so much lost time for us to make up. She shifts, sleepily curling up against my body. My arm is crooked at an angle so I can play with her hair. But I don't mind, as long as she is just fine.

Today feathers slipped from my mouth
Galaxies of bruises spread across my skin
And I became content with my body for a fleeting moment
But I can't tell you that.

Today someone cut my skin with scissor-sharp words
I felt the pressure of everything crushing me
And I aced a science test.
But I can't tell you that.

Today I realized that I feel like the only person in my universe
I missed the soft touch of your skin
And I felt sorry for myself
But I can't tell you that.

Today I tasted molten gold
Silver cascaded from the sky, similar to stars
And I wanted to kiss you
But I can't tell you that.

Today my fingers tapped the censored keys
I had an empty conversation with you
And I worried about our survival
But I can't tell you that.

I want to mark my skin
like the ever-stained hem of the sleeves
that lick my knuckles like the sea foam
of a southern beach.

I want each pore to be filled
with the same heaviness that each streak
of watered-down mascara holds
as it lingers on the ends of my worn-out shirt sleeves.

Every line must mirror the soul
trapped in the blackened rivers
that forever run parallel to each other.

The curves crafted by the needle
will sway with same helium
he fills my chest with;

the crosses and dots will pack
the kisses he planted tenderly on my lips.

My first tattoo must be more than ink,
it must be heart.