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Nightingale

We lay side by side, our heart rates calming, our skin still hot. She emanates heat and there is the finest sheen of sweat on her back, making her tattoos glossy.
She is so beautiful. I refuse to believe that something so ugly as cancer could be growing inside her.
I hear her murmur something. I move closer, running my fingers ever so lightly over the tattoo of the bird on her back. It’s new, I can tell. The skin still looks a little puffy and red, and the lines are fresh and crisp looking.
“It’s a nightingale,” she whispers.
“Nightingale?”
“Yeah.”
I am pondering the significance of this when she gives an adorable giggle.
“It’s, uh, a symbol of love. Also of longing.”
“Longing?”
She’s quiet for a second. “Yeah. For death."
That chokes what I’m about to say.
We lay in silence.

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