The Weight of Ink

He found me in the quiet of late afternoons.
The city hummed outside, but his apartment absorbed all sound.
I traced the lines on my skin, each a memory etched into permanence. He traces them with his eyes.
There's a language in that silence,
a recognition of battles fought and survived.
He doesn’t ask about the ink; he asks about the colors swirling within me now.
His hands are warm on my skin, offering a different kind of mark—one not born of pain, but of gentle acceptance.
It isn't a grand love,
but quiet moments like these feel whole.

Editor: Pure Linen