Ink

You were someone who knew never to ask anyone what their tattoos meant.  That would be rude.  Instead, you asked what it was on the inside of my wrist that night when I invited you over to see it for yourself.  You had never seen the tiny landmarks of my life, seemingly insignificant things from states you had never seen before. The ink was fresh and bled on the sheets that night, but you said nothing and snuck out in the morning with a half-assed kiss and a brush of your hand on my bare shoulder.

We fell apart promptly thereafter due to matters I could never explain to anyone other than to say that you were too young for me.

You walked up to me at the party after a year of carefully avoiding each other in public and told me you understood, finally.  I smiled wanly as you gently turned my wrist over and pointed.  “I get it now, I saw it,” you said, garnering some attention in the crowded room as you barely raised your voice.  You looked over your glasses at me as I examined the proof, the photo in your hand.  Everyone seemed to wait, to see if I would actually speak to you now.

“I guess you do get it,” I conceded.  You were still too young for me.

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