In Permanent Ink

We are written in the kind of permanent ink only the heart knows how to read. Occupying the quarters of the mind, stretched across a woven tapestry we decorated in vibrant shades— lingering in some places more than others. --- Shy glances on our first date— white carnations, buttered popcorn. Hands finding each other in the dark. A stop at the photo booth. A goodnight kiss on a dimly lit porch. --- A random hike up Promise Hill. Daisies, forget-me-nots framing our steps. The sun crests as we peak— burnt orange waving across the sky. I turn on the whisper of my name. The sun at my back. A solitaire, your bended knee at the front. --- The epicenter shifts before the loud arrivals. Bundles of energy— pink tutus, navy coveralls. We pause. Unpredictable as seconds— ballet abandoned for V8s, piano and theatre for the other. Open-air screenings under stars, blankets, pillows, a Sunday kind of full. --- Midday meetings. Cocktails on a Thursday. Dinner parties, car pools with purpose. Phone calls just because. Anniversaries in the quiet. The long walk down the hall to the corner office with a view. We pause— again. --- The crest blanket hangs in the room filled with the most laughter. Bingo. Black Jack. Beer. Movies on a Friday— buckets of buttered popcorn, hands still finding each other in the dark, still leaning in for a kiss. Written in permanent ink.