The window is ajar, the night breeze dancing through the curtains. A weak lamp illuminates the room in soft tones. Gibsie is lying on her stomach, the T-shirt thrown on the floor, and you sitting on his legs, with a hydrographic pen in your hand.

“Do you promise you won’t laugh?” You ask, holding back your nervous laughter.

“If it’s a jellybean with eyes, maybe. But I swear to try.” His voice is low, dragged. There’s something magical about him, as if he were trying to record every second of that night.

You start slowly. First a little heart near the shoulder shovel. Then lightning, a crooked star, a smiling face.

“Is this abstract art?” He provokes, with his face buried in the pillow, but the contained laughter escaping.

“Shhh. You are my screen, not my criticism.”

“You’re writing ‘I’m an idiot’ on my back, right?”

“No! Still.”

He turns his face a little, and his blue eye shines as he looks at you sideways.

“You could tattoo me like that every day. I swear I was going to walk around with your name drawn on my back with pride.”

You smile, and the next thing you draw is a constellation. Tiny, interconnected dots on his hot skin.

“What is this now?” He asks, curious.

“It’s Cassiopeia. They say it’s to remember that we can be too vain and still be loved.”

He is silent for a while. Just his breath, the touch of his marker, the sound of the wind.

“You know everything, you know?” He says suddenly, quietly. “But what I like the most is that you... make everything look light. Even when it draws a crooked ray.”

You tilt your body forward and kiss the back of his neck.

“And you let me be light. Even when the world weighs.”

He lets out a deep sigh, as if his entire chest was empty there, under you.

“Do you draw a little more?” He asks, with a muffled voice.

“Of course.”

You write your name very tiny between the shoulder blades. Then a “mine” next to it.

And he just smiles. Because deep down, it was all he wanted:

To be yours. With a painted body, an open heart and a silly soul for you.