Ink and Clouds

He saw it in her eyes. The heartbreak. The past.

The artist knew he’d ink whatever she asked.

He didn't expect her to let him make a choice.

She holds out her arm, a red line from elbow to wrist; pain in her voice.

“I hate how this looks. Can you do a cover-up?”

“I can, you got a memory to disrupt?”

“Something like that.”

“What do you have in mind?”

She shrugs, “I’d rather go in blind.”

He nods, “I know just what you need.”

The ink flows as her skin starts to bleed.

Her eyes close, she breathes a sigh.

He looks back down, remembers the sky.

“The clouds are so pretty,” says his love, “what a nice view.”

He admires her smile, her eyes. “I put them up there just for you.”

“Your heart's broken, too, I know that look.”

Her voice breaks his thoughts, “Indeed, she stole my heart like a crook.”

“What happened?” She asks, eyes knowing and sweet.

“She was sick with something we couldn’t beat.”

She nods, leans back, enjoys the sting.

“How about you? Your eyes speak sorrow, but you wear no ring.”

She laughs, “He bailed, eyes wandered, left in a blaze of glory.”

“Well, we’re done. I gave you books, open spine, stitched in ink. Your scars deserve a better story.”