To engrave our beings with edged words,
I pined. 

To scribble on our bodies like the early ones pressed cuneiform into clay,
I craved.

To emblazon shared images marking our two-hundred-mile accomplishment, 
I ached.  

Tattoo artists notice when queers try to make magic out of trash
and hum into the thick intimacy spun between the arms of separate people. 
Symbol chosen, location mapped, the needles permanently put arrows on us. 

Decades may pass before our arms brush again due to a cordial handshake.  
Maybe if Eros' had shot us instead of the tattoo gun, you could have stayed true.
Our shared etched lines and the unspoken chapters between us will fade into dust. 
We can plan on meeting in the stars near Chiron’s bow if we never connect in this lifetime.
When you arrive, look for an arrow that matches yours, and I’ll wish you “buen camino.”