This tattoo ... Simon Perchik This tattoo once had the courage, a rose surrounded by summer evenings and skin that remembers how warm the name was —what’s left is covered with the forever growing on your arm as the voice belonging to a dead woman making room for an immense sea, silencing the Earth from outside—here, was a shoulder here, her lips—here the dress becomes too heavy, falls into you as driftwood—here was the heart, naked beginning to snow—here was the sleeve.
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