dream ink

In my dreams lately, my shoulders are being tattooed. Again and again. Tattoo ink is being pressed and pinched into the skin running along my shoulder blades and I can hear the buzz and feel the sting of hundreds of needles. It doesn't bother me, though. I can't see the tattooer or what they are permanently etching into me, but I know that it's profound and perfect. When I wake up, my shoulders itch and I wonder what it was my dream tattooer left there. Perhaps my dream shoulders are now covered in tree branches and blooms. But I know that that's somebody else's tattoo, not mine. Perhaps it's the night sky inverted - the white sprinkling of stars tattooed black and my back creating the vast expanse of nothingness in between. Or could it be excerpts from Moonlight Sonata? Or would Hall of the Mountain King be a more appropriate fit? None of these things seem right. A beautiful quote from a favorite book? No. It bothers me that when I wake up every morning, I can't fathom the image that was just being placed there. The image that I feel close to and understand when I'm asleep, but lose track of the instant the dream ink retreats. I don't even want a tattoo on my shoulders, anyways.