Turtles and Trees

Your fingers swirled
in small circles
over the surface
of my tiny tattoo.
After that first day,
after our bodies
had released
all the yearning
they had held
for two long years,
I lay with my toes
near your chest
while you traced
the picture on my ankle.
You said it suited me,
an almost tribal turtle
the size of a half-dollar.
I remember your touch
sending shivers up my leg,
and I wondered why
you thought Outlaw
described you so well,
why you didn’t see
the good,
the gentle,
the grace
underneath those dangerous tendencies.
I ran the tips of my fingers
across your belly,
tickling your sides.
You jumped
and I laughed.

Now,
dark tattoos cover
your once bare skin,
that ticklish torso is dotted
with tangled trees
and tiny skulls,
and all I want to do
is touch them
like you touched my tattoo
in the darkness,
your fingers slowly
etching you into my heart.

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