It's a harmony of lines, all twisting around your back,
Shades of emerald and ebony running across your skin.
Your entity is held together by works of indeciduous art,
Of a myriad of memories you pulled out of your blood.
(Names I don't recognize are etched over your heart,
But you tell me they're from a era long fell apart.)
You tell me you don't believe in happy endings,
And that forever is a figment of a fool's imagination.
Your lips press into a line and your tongue ties,
And you're now choking on the words you can't say.
(Four letters have been ruined for you, for me,
And I wonder if the names on your chest hide scars.)
There's ink in your skin, and it's tragic in an ethereal way,
The way you are painted with engravings for an eternity,
But you don't dare give even a vocable of certainty,
To last in my life a little longer that I know you will.
(Perhaps you're afraid of making promises you can't keep,
Or maybe I'm not a work of art worth holding evermore.)