Losing Lori

I remember when you went to get your tattoos.

You wanted two hummingbirds, one on each hip, and you wanted them facing each other. They were a pain to get, I'm sure. But you did it bravely, Lori. I held both your hands and kissed your cheeks when you started crying, even though I know that was the last thing you wanted me to do. It had to have helped though, right? Because you made it. They finished the birds and you stood up and smiled at me like you'd saved the world or gave birth, and I was so proud of you that I felt like singing.

I traced them weeks after they'd healed, and you let me. You said it felt nice, soothing even, my hands on your hips. I had always thought that was where you were ticklish, but I guess that's just another lie you told me to keep me at a distance.

I always let you touch me, Lori. You wanted to trace the tattoos on my forearms all the time, and did I ever stop you? Of course not. Because I craved your touch just as much as your system craved nicotine, and I still do. I'd kill for your fingertips grazing across my back, or even your cool breath on my neck in the morning.

I'd just kill for you.