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I’ve never been a fan, not much of a hater

though I never truly thought of it as art

Preferred those who were without it

like how I preferred those who did not smoke

He was completely the opposite

of my ideal guy

But then again what are ideals?

than mere thoughts and fantasies


He was real, as real as can be

he had tattoo all over his back and upper arms

Yet, fonder I grew of him

His honesty and stories, captured me

his charisma, his smile, his friendliness

All bottled into one, which is him

His voice, as he sings, echoes to my ears


The tattoos, that he thinks of as art

I’ve come to accept as it is

as a part of him, as a symbol of himself

I admired him, liked him, fell for him

fell deep, fell hard


Now, here I am, alone and without

thinking of his smile, his voice

and those tattoos


A story teller, a writer, and sometimes, a poet.

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