I wanted to imprint my name into your skin.
I wanted to mark you as my own.
It’s not that I was jealous,
It’s that I was proud.

Because ****, look at this girl.
She’s one for the record books, and
She was mine for a moment, there.

I wanted to write the scientific names of bones
in Sharpie across your skin.
I wanted to take pictures of
gladiolus written in cursive down your sternum, because
your body is the best kind of canvas.
I wanted to make art with you.

My fingerprints painted with
the oils of your skin.
They wanted every speck of dust that settled
on your body to reveal their
loops and whorls and arches,
so people would know I’d been there.

My tongue traced calligraphy
on the insides of your cheeks
I signed your body in saliva and sweat.

I wanted to tattoo
the shape of your smile
underneath my eyelids.
It was never something I could see without grinning.

But saliva doesn’t stain and
Sharpie will come out after enough showers.
Fingerprints get smudged, smeared, erased by someone else’s touch.
Nothing was tattooed, etched in stone, permanent.

You didn’t leave any scars
because hickeys fade
but I still feel like
broken capillaries whenever I see you.