A Tattoo Made From Her Tears

I will tattoo my name onto his skin. You thought that having your name written in Sharpie on his forearm made him yours, but here he sits, reclined on a leather couch, as I pick up and pull the tattoo machine. The photographs of the two of you, will soon be nothing more than fuel for the fires that he loves to set to keep me warm. Every time you reach out and try to graze the back of his hand with your sin searching fingertips, you will be met with the electricity of my personality that resides as a Monet on his chest. I knew from the moment when he was crying in your arms and he turned to me, when he wanted to be embraced by me, when he wanted to be comforted by me, that I would always be his choice. Tattoos are nice that way, they're permanent. So even if he and I part ways, it will always be me written on his skin. His lips will move as if synced to mine. His hands will search for my body. His mind will long for mine. You'll never be anything more than the girl with a marker, and that ink will soon run dry, even when you think you've perfected a masterpiece on his skin, I'll hold his hand as I guide the marks under running water, and with kisses meant to scorch, I'll scrub his skin of you. You and your once assured permanency will be nothing more than a fading memory. Because I will let my tattoos be made from your tears, I will let courage, kindness and love, all things he's never experienced before, be what embraces him. Your affection will be a doodle compared to The Starry Night of my work.