I woke up this morning next to him, the sun just starting to filter into his room. His back was towards me, my body pressed, and slightly stuck to his skin from the humidity. I smiled to myself as my left hand began to trace the light house on his back.
An art piece that wasn’t finished, just an outline with visible broken lines and novice shading. He told me once,
“People place too much importance on tattoos. I just go for it, and don’t look back”.
I’ve always envied his free spirited, carelessness. His piercings, gauges, body mods, and works of art. Some in progress, some complete. . Beautiful in their own imperfections of his passions.
The Joker. Batman. Scenes from The Nightmare Before Christmas. A giant eagle grasping a pot leaf and a bottle of bourbon spread across his chest. And of course, the unfinished light house.
I slept the majority of the day, attempting to evade the ever growing list of responsibilities. “Adulting”, my best friend would call it. I think I am a professional procrastinator, but without the typical underlying stress.
Now, I’m three lines deep – motivated to write, chain smoking, while sweat beads on my skin. I love this porch. . . I can feel my heart beat ever so faintly increasing as it starts to kick in. The mania has me thinking about that light house, tempted to throw on some clothes and go. Maybe get an imperfect portrayal of one of my passions branded on my skin.