Sometimes people volunteer to be photographed and tell me their stories, leaving it up to me entirely to post about their tattoos. This is the story of the Lonely Moon Sister, which I retell as best I can:
It’s sort of like the David Bowie song, “Bewlay Brothers,” except with sisters, which is what we were like, spiritual sisters.
And our talk was old and dust would flow
Through our veins and though it was midnight back at the kitchen door
Like the grim face on the cathedral floor
The solid book we wrote cannot be found today
You are so close that you never think about being apart. I didn’t think about it. We planned on getting matching tattoos together, but when the day came, she didn’t show up. I don’t know why. I don’t know what happened. So, I had to decide. Should I still get my tattoo?
And now the dress is hung, the ticket pawned
The factor max that proved the fact is melted down
Woven on the edging of my pillow
This tattoo is very small. It’s the only one I have, but it feels very large to me. Maybe the pain when I got it was so much larger than what would go with a small tattoo, so it left a permanent largeness, maybe the whole size of me.
Lay me place and bake me pie I’m starving for me gravy
Leave my shoes, and door unlocked I might just slip away.
Just for the day, ay
Please come away, ay…