Dead flowers—tulips and daisies, some wilted, some crumbling—cuffed the bottom of his bicep. Their vibrancy returned in increments as the bouquet branched higher up, coming to life in sharp colors, growing more lush inch by inch. Yellows and oranges and greens stimulated my senses. Pink peonies cupped his rounded shoulders, spilling onto his chest in a starburst of red rose petals. Raven’s work held deep meaning for him. In his painting, he was the dead flower, and Joey and my love had been what watered and resuscitated him. The problem now was I didn’t know which end of the tattoo was the
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