It’s easier to look at tattoos. Sometimes the eyes speak up when I don’t want them to, they’re loud mouths. So I look at tattoos. Spilling down arms that hold me just to remember how warm I can get. I’m regretting this in the best ways. We’re not dating. We just like to imitate love. I’m not sure if you like the way I kiss or understand why I can’t talk about the last person I been with. The last person. They were more than just viciously vibrant tattoos, they were my good news. I hate me for searching for replacements. No matter how many people I hold, his fragrance still blesses my bones. No matter how many tattoos I can count, I’m still try to figure out where you’re hidden..