My Cardboard Balcony

Overly Inked by Belinda Roddie I wrote a conspiracy theory on your back, and you had it tattooed in red and black by the man in the gray skullcap at the parlor with white walls splattered with the photographs of a single moment over drinks long ago. He was so careful with the needle, as it buried its nose into your flesh, breathing in its curves and edges, pulsing with nearly arousing euphoria as it spelled out my commentary in calligraphy and flowered misgivings. We took shots of tequila at the bar next door and soaked our lips in lime before we heard the jets flying over our heads. I screamed, "Look at the shadows on the walls!" We knew that the Illuminati was watching us from the cracks in the plaster, sipping cold tea out of plastic mugs, musing over the cryptic code painted across your veins and threatening to leak into your bloodstream, slowing your heart to a deep, somber rhythm, like a drum rumbling beside an acidifying ocean, all the crust...

Let's do some hiking while the sun is setting and put together a picnic in the dry, gold grass. Let's wait until it gets dark out and the first star appears from the curtain like a shy performer ready to take the stage for the first time. We'll count all of the glittering celestial ensemble until there are too many for us to keep track of. And they will sing for us. And they will dance for us. And we will hold hands after brushing the sandwich crumbs away before we walk down the trail back to our car.