As he showered from another day,
the ink on his arms was washed away.
It’d been left by friends with ecstatic pens
who in excitement had been carried away.
One wouldn’t rub off no matter how much he scrubbed,
drawn by a girl whom he had once loved.
the ink on his arms was washed away.
It’d been left by friends with ecstatic pens
who in excitement had been carried away.
One wouldn’t rub off no matter how much he scrubbed,
drawn by a girl whom he had once loved.
