it's been two years.

Two fucking years and your still tattooed all over me.

You have one on your arm, I have them everywhere.

Tattoos, both of all the things I've learned, and all the things I want to know.

My eyes are engraved with your face, and the minor irritance of your imperfect staining teeth.

My ears are imbedded with every sound I heard from and associate with you.

Groans of annoyance,  moans of pleasure, your light laughter when I said something clever.

The reving of car engines, my own pathetic whines.

My skin still tingles with static, and temptation to touch you,

My lips pulse, asking for you too.

My temper is still bathed with tension,

From night shifts worked and helping your granny, (whoever she is), at the dentist.

You, are an infuriating jingle on loop in my head,

Or a couple of inscripted lines from a book I once read.

The nausea, induces poetry vomit, at 12:33 AM.

Every yellow car with black stripes, resucitates me, the pain comes back to life.

Because, even though chances are miniscule, what if it's yours?

Bits of information, I'll never use again,

Like that plastic paint stuff, appropriately named plastidip.

How do you even spell shit like that?

My tattoos stain pages, yours stain your skin.

I wonder, Adam, will I ever be blank, again?




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