The Memory In His Skin

There are some memories I'm not meant to forget.
I carry them with me wherever I go.
The roar of the crowd.
The feeling of being on the stage.
The sound of the music we made.
The way he looked in the moments after he died.
I carry him with me, written into my skin in the ink he put there with his own hands. I can hardly bear looking at it in the mirror, but I have no other choice. The best I can do is finish the work he started, trust someone else with my skin and hope that having it completed eases the burden of his memory.
But my heart?
That's a different matter and nobody has come close to reaching the places he has occupied since we were children.
Nobody gets to have the sacred spaces where his memory lingers.
Nobody until Tully.

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