Permanence

I spent some time drawing a tattoo
in permanent marker. Black swirls
covering the palm of my hand. Thick
and shiny-wet, so that if I
carefully laid my hand on a page,
perfect swirls would be imprinted,
shaped just like me.
But I don’t have any paper, and
I used that hand to push up from the table,
open the door, guide my way down the dark hall—
bleeding a black trail, unseen in darkness,
fading into the white of the wall,
receding into the creases of my palm.