You left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.
She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.
Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.
She never felt quite at home. She worried about getting caught in a gust of wind and tossed down in a field somewhere, but secretly, she hoped for it.
She missed you. She wouldn't admit it, but I could see it in her face and hear it in her words.
She lost her right shoe one night. She walked a half mile in the rain without it and arrived at the front door with a big smile on her face. Sometimes I worry. Perhaps too much.
She pinned her heart on her sleeve, but she wrapped it up in tinfoil first. I asked her if it hurt, she said that it did at first, but not anymore.
Her body weakened without her heart. She turned pale and cold. I told her that I thought she was dying, she told me that she knew.
I used to catch her staring at the wall sometimes. She wondered if that's all there wasone day you just hit a wall and then the end.
She insisted on arranging her own funeral. She made silver death notices and limped down to the florist. She brought back a wagon-full of large bouquets of lilies and poppies, arranging them around a bed.
It was quite a sight to see when I found her resting peacefully. She requested that you come to see her one last time before she was gone forever.
We watched them carry her away, drifting through sun and snow. We followed her body, crying and waiting. But you would wait no more.