i will remember her:
lying on her stomach in bed, propped up, lounging, and with slow, steady hands she marked my skin, designs in pastels and neons. my left forearm glowed with the luminescent ink of her work, i’d smiled because of her freeform freedom. after the incident of the Sharpie and her couch, i’d bought milky pens. my skill was not in freeform, but in replicas. she was a girl who needed to fly and so i’d drawn her wings.
