I know some people who've gotten tattoos that they probably

In the book of living skin, there is a stern proverb: “I know some people who’ve gotten tattoos they shouldn’t have, like the name of somebody they were dating, and that never ends well.” Hear the flint under those words. Ink is a covenant with time, and time is a famously fickle priest. What we carve into flesh should be able to outlast a season of fireworks; what we swear to the needle should endure the rains. A name taken in the fever of dating is often a vow made to summer—and winter keeps better records.

The ancients knew the weight of inscription. In Rome, when an emperor fell from grace, the chisels came out: his name was chiseled from arches and milestones—damnatio memoriae, the condemnation of memory. Even stone, once proud, learned to swallow letters. How much more careful, then, should we be with tattoos upon the living page? Skin remembers with a tenderness that stone cannot imitate; it keeps the heat of the moment and the ache of the aftermath. To etch a lover’s name is to make a treaty with impermanence and pretend it cannot betray.

Consider the oft-told tale of an artist who branded his devotion: “Winona Forever,” a banner across his arm. When the romance turned to mist, a new joke was carved from the old vow: “Wino Forever.” Wit can mask a wound, but it does not mend it. The story is not mockery; it is catechism. Our hearts are changeable weather; our bodies are long roads. Best to adorn the road with markers that still make sense when the storm has passed.

Sailors of old inked anchors, swallows, and compasses—images of craft, homecoming, and direction—because these truths outlived a port-of-call romance. A swallow returns across oceans; an anchor holds in squall and calm; a compass points even when the map burns. These were tattoos that could stand before time and not bow. A lover’s name may be precious—let it be written on deeds, on habits, on the daily bread you break together. But the needle should honor what remains when names change their address.

The quote is not an edict against love; it is a hedge against haste. The soul is eager to proclaim, to weld the present to the eternal with a single sting of ink. Yet love’s truest proclamations are patient: they learn the beloved’s winter face, the difficult silences, the way forgiveness must be brewed again and again. If, after many seasons, the vow is still strong, then even the needle will bow its head and say, “Now I believe you.”

Let this be the lesson handed down with gentle gravity: Permanence is a holy word; reserve it for holy things. Weave your devotion into actions before you freeze it into letters. Choose symbols that speak even when the audience has changed; choose placements that do not become a daily quarrel with your own reflection. Remember that the skin you mark is the same skin that must carry you into future rooms—interviews, nurseries, hospital wards, the mirror at dusk.

Rites for the road: (1) Keep a “year-and-a-day” rule for name tattoos—if the love lasts through a full wheel of seasons, reconsider with clear eyes. (2) Inscribe virtues before people: a sign for steadiness, mercy, or home—things that do not file for forwarding addresses. (3) If you must honor a bond in ink, encode it—a constellation, a place, a date in a private cipher—so that the meaning remains when stories change. (4) When the heart surges, write a letter instead; when the heart endures, write a life. Do these, and you will not have to learn the hard refrain that never ends well; instead, your skin will be a gallery of wisdom, not a museum of apologies.