I had a tattooed lover who would stretch out in my small bed and tell me stories from the indelible ink that looped round his limbs. This was for that. This is for her. Him. Once. I was in India. He had a whole novel on his body and I had a library card to his stories with my finger that pulled down his arm like a record player needle. I would put words on my body. I would. I would tell the story of this girl.