inking intimacy
the needle threads the skin, two pinpricks of silver that glints in the afterglow of a setting sun.
in your hands they look like a singular metal chopstick, those kinds desperate housewives use as a last resort to provide a stilt of support for their oh so pitifully wilting garden variety plants.
except skinnier and sharper, like the tones of your voice and the lines of your skin. muscles, sinews, undulating plains of post-modern green bliss.
and your hands, moving with mechanical, methodical intensity, colour me black and blue with the scars of your indifference.