That Tattoo.

That Tattoo

by james bezerra

I loved you,

but also

– and separately –

your skirts

and that tattoo.

I loved you

as unconditionally as I could,

but I am not an unscarred man.

The skirts though

and your tattoo

I still love without condition.

Thorns of ink across

rising slope

from bottom of ribs down to hip

and the glide of my hand

over dark roses

in your skin.

I loved you

in bed on my right

falling asleep on my arm

your ink side up and

I’d pull slick sheets away

just to see your body

soft in the little light

white in the little light

your back and

my thumb slowly down the

notches of your spine

and your

tattoo like

vines, like veins,

like the outward sign of

something dark within you,

the tattoo

I loved

probably more forgivingly

than I loved you.

.

.

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