ode to the line of transgression on my living room table

because I know he’s likely there and can hear me
I whisper under the cover of too many late night and decadent irish coffees:
turn your body over and place your hand on that space
occupied by the tattoo
just under the final ridge of your left rib
feel the pressure of your own hand
residing on the image
and know that amidst the rough edges
of love and sex and the unknown qualities of women who have gone
you remain
unchanged
like a battle scar
unique and precious
a jewel of undiscovered capacity
open the blinds and let the world inside
feel the sun against the places usually covered in clothes
love yourself
be yourself
and don’t apologize to anyone for wanting to walk the world clothed only in trueness of your skin