Ink.

Colourful ink dancing up his arms, wrapping around the skinny figure turning him into a piece of art work, I follow him with my eyes then my body… up the stairs of the bus and gracefully into a seat. I sit a couple seats in front of him and on the other side of the aisle, I don't want to look to obvious… he grabs the news paper from the seat behind me and pauses– for an instance I think he might talk to me, he doesn't and I remember I'm still listening to music, some how it had completely faded into the background of my conscious… I made a judgment error in sitting in front of him, instead of behind 'cause now I have to look behind me to see him… I'm not even sure if he's good looking or not and his clothing is way to trendy for my taste, it's just the ink, maybe a reflection of his soul, maybe his conscious, but probably just some pretty pictures on his arm.