there’s something incredibly intimate about writing something on your skin.
a note, a number, a date, a word
that slowly blurs and is absorbed
until it’s no longer legible
and is instead a grey-blue blur of
vaguely recalled intentions.

so the next time you blow on the inside of your wrist
and wait for the ink to dry
remember that you’re committing whatever it is you’ve written
to your physical body’s memory
and that ink will swirl through you,
remnants of whatever idea you grasped so tightly to.