Walking Canvas

i keep dreaming of ink flowing across my body
a never-ending cascade of art, permanently etched, making me smile when i wake up in the morning and shuffle to the mirror, rub the sleep from my eyes and remember that i’m a walking canvas.
last night, i dreamt that my mother and i went to a tattoo parlor together
[i can’t believe dream-me didn’t realize this wasn’t real]
and got matching vibrant tattoos on our upper arms,
bright, identical sunsets that complemented our olive-tinted skin.
the night before that, as i slept, i texted a muse to ask if i could copy his original design,
thought about how his grey-blue eyes would twinkle at the thought, making my heart race,
then woke up remembering how his mouth turns up at the corners when he’s trying not to laugh.
i sat in a cafe, engulfed by armchair cushions softened after years of cafe-sitting, stared out the lightly-smudged window and (of course) my mind wandered and i pictured vines
twining endlessly around my back and arms, coming to life as a visual representation
of my love for nature. i could almost smell the rain on those softly painted leaves.
today, a breeze rolls in through my bedroom window, moving the curtains accidentally to the beat of “Que Sera, Sera” and my heart aches because it remembers something in the smell that tagged along,
but my mind can’t keep up with the memories.
instead, to soothe myself, i picture what a beach would look like embedded along my thigh, how i would love for endless ocean conveyed with
just a few lines. perhaps half a footprint in the sand, near the raised line of muscle.
tomorrow, i’ll probably think of an excerpt from a fantasy novel to add to my growing list, and i will wonder if the human body can possibly contain all of that art at once…

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