There is a boy with a scar on his arm
from the thorn of a rose.
A rose like the one he wants to ink
into the skin of his shoulder blades.
So that his mother can look through the clouds
and see that she helped write his story.

I take this boy's hand
and poise my pen on his palm.
He does not pull away
so I draw stars along the wrinkles
so he can read me in his future.

He takes my pen
and draws a heart on my shoulder,

so for a week I pretend I am a sailor.
I follow my ship wherever it takes me
and pretend that I am not afraid
because a sailor knows
her ship will always take her home.

And so when finally I arrive
I run to him.
Because all the saltwater in the world
has not washed away
the heart he drew on my shoulder.

But he pulls away,
to my outstretched arms he gives open palms.

And they are blank.

The stars I drew there have been rubbed away
by someone else's hands.

So I show him my shoulder
and the heart that he drew there
and the heart that he's breaking.

And he hangs his head
because though I am not written in his future,
he is forever written in my past.