He was too scared to commit,
With tattoos upon his skin.
He told me nothing lasts forever,
With inscriptions etched in his pores.
He said he could not cope with pain,
With designs upon his skin.
Each pinch and sting from
needle and ink seemed somehow
worthwhile to him.
He shied away from the realities of living,
Maybe I was not a work of art
or even worth committing.
He rather liked to cover up
the fact we were a thing.
Not show off what was on his arm,
I was his momentary fling.
Perhaps I was not his forever,
But his here and now.
It seems I was not worth the affliction,
For he rubbed my tattooed kiss from his lips.
He walked away and to this day,
I see I was nothing
but a stick on,