Dear Luke,
The matching tattoos we got a month before you left, when everything was okay, were mocking me.
There, on my ankle, inked into my skin forever, were your initials, marked boldly in black ink. I remember that day we got them so vividly, you held my hand whilst I sat in the chair trying not to cry because of the pain. You were laughing at my misfortune, but when it was your turn to get your tattoo, it was me laughing at your misery.
Can you come back so we can laugh at that memory together, Luke? Please?
I miss you so much.
Love,
Florence.