Yesterday
I got a tattoo.
The artist had coppery hair
That slid into her eyes.
They were green
And I noticed that they changed color
From dark to light
Sometimes almost turquoise,
Sometimes mossy and deep.
She scared me right away because I wanted her hands on me.
We talked about art.
Then we talked about girls.
Then we talked about life
And how when she was young
They teased her for her Southern drawl.
I realized that was the music drawing me in to the sound of her voice-
The faintest remnant of an accent,
Just enough to touch my skin.
It was just a little rough, like velvet rubbed in the wrong direction.
She worked on my shoulder
And I would turn my head to watch her.
Even though I couldn't see the ink-
I could see her face,
Shadowed by the light above her,
Lips parted
Eyes focused and passionate.
It is very dangerous to watch an artist work
To look at her face.
You don't know how easy it is to love someone who holds beauty in their fingers, who molds and shapes it and brings it into the world.
You don't know until it's a possibility dancing in the air before you,
And suddenly you think you must've looked too long...
I tested this feeling, tried to find its limits and its dimension,
Tried to figure if it was solid or smoky.
I couldn't tell, but
I noticed her hands on me, gentle but firm,
And as she was lost in her art I realized that I WAS her art,
And what a way to feel alive, to be a canvas for someone's passion for life!
And I nearly shivered,
And I suddenly realized that I was leaning into her needle,
Subtly but undeniably
And I could not unknow the fact that the pain made me breathless not because it hurt
But because she was inflicting it
Molding me, changing me, making me art and reaching into me somehow.
Afterwards we talked for so long that I walked with her to her car.
She hugged me goodbye and it took me by surprise.
I wonder if she knew any of it.
I wonder if she enjoyed my skin the way it enjoyed her fingers.
I suppose
One way or another,
I will find out.