The way the dragonfly across your chest stares at me, through a lawn of pinwheel hairs; and the way your beard tickles me in such a way that I believe at any minute you are going to accumulate flannel and chop me a tree subtly confuses how I feel now that we have played a skilled game of ring toss. I am used to our conversations while you drag quill and ink across my skin and leave scars in all the right places. But the way you look at me a masterpiece to be devoured, and poisonous makes me ask if you can scratch my back for hours, but ******* get raw being rubbed like sweatshirts against bare skin all day. I don’t know how I feel about palindromes now, but I know how you feel when you make it snow inside and hand-rolled cigarette smoke fills the room chasing ferrets through sheets leaving bruises in the shape of dental x-rays. How does it feel, Once all of your tattoos have met?