Her skin was beautiful. And I was never more than a piece of memory, a breath held for a second, and yet she told me that I was the best kind of tattoo. I was unregretted ink without the sharpness of a needle and she told me that it felt better than okay. Okay? Okay, someone told me that John Green was a writer and that I sounded like Hazel Grace in my attempts to tell this untattooed girl that I was only human and that she was only a canvas for hope among the hallways of our hells, but it was true. And she told me that maybe this person was right occasionally, but I still sat in their kitchen eating salad like I ate hamburgers in my backyard as a little boy, messy and young, while my life was guided by the cook. There's something about drinking in advice while you drink water.
Her opinion of me was that I was slightly crazy and messy and quite often a screw up, and that has always been true, up until the last day before our next life adventure and I managed to get sidelined while she powered on, taking pieces of me with her. And so it goes, and they tell you that you are the average of the five people you are most with, but I think it's because they are who you breathe. In the most literal and figurative sense. I wonder what we'll be like with less air, and sometimes I wonder if you tattoo someone with your words, does it last? Who are you when you are no longer breathing the people that filled your lungs for so long.
Her way of thinking has always been in the physical and mine has always been in the spiritual and that's ironic in many ways, but most of all in the way that we have blended. And so my theory goes that maybe thoughts travel in highways, and highways of course have collisions, and maybe we've collided more than the average amount of times and I don't know what to do without the painful growth that has been our relationship. I really don't. And she has never told me much about the repair jobs on those crashed thoughts, but I can see it in her voice. And it takes me back to those tattoed words, and it takes me back to the air we breathe, and it takes me back. And maybe these lives don't fade, maybe they just get inked over.