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Skin is just a container. The sloshy red blood of heartache, the wispy, serene outline of soul; it’s all in there, no doubt. Better keep the lid on tight.

When it spills it is messy to be sure, dissolved emotions spreading like creamy chicken soup on this table between us. The spilled liquid rushes outward, fast, fast, now slower, yet ever expanding. Missing and longing and some kind of sadness that rises to the top like oil.

I think about your tattoos, sometimes, when I’m drowning in that oil, coughing up globs of slick wetness. Gross, right? But back to your tattoos.

I wonder who has traced those lines, those marks imprinted in your skin like black veins. Skin on skin; no fingerprints still linger. I know you’ve scrubbed and scrubbed.

Hmm. Half-full or half-empty? Let’s not go too far with this metaphor; let the liquid lie still.

Yes, stillness, but also spinning, whirling, rushing with memories. I remember the smell of fish and cigars, like that time at the lake when you told me to look away and I didn’t. I hate that.

The fingers of fire brushing up against my legs, never touching, the calm force of the night. Then the hard crunch of a concrete parking lot, then the bristled trees of a mountainside; our story goes on and on. I love that.

Labels: what should this container be labeled? Take out the sharpie; contents under pressure, expiration date unknown. I know, I know, too far again, but I like to push.

Just one more thing, one more reach into the universe, across all of this damn corn back to where I am supposed to be. Back to where I am not. Love, longing, missing, feeling; skin is just a container, and I’m full.