Tattoo

The sinus drip of stifling air, and  
grimy windows, as we sip the humidity.  
No names allowed, faceless in its sin.  
 
Hidden in a truck stop bathroom.  
The heat, the sweat—  
flies are sucked down a drain.  
 
His skin gives off the smell of a tattoo,  
and I recognize
this puma is no ink blot.
 
A thumbnail full burns my eyes. 
I bare my teeth
to have him here right now.  
 
A cracked mirror fractures the image,  
showing the act multiple times  
as more than one of him.  
 
I don't care at this moment
when he presses my back to the floor  
and I'm just as wet.