She slowly curved our insides to a mass of empty breaths, and when finally we would exhale and exhale, fight and desperately seek meaning in our wispy, airy contractions, nothing would come of them. A different way of saying: she had a death in me. Her hair, of red pine and willow leaves in autumn would sit lightly on her pale skin – and oh, small shivers would stand still against my spine –  
hurry.
Her knees were colourless; lines threw their bones into an awkward shape of round, what would normally fit wholly unusual, between her slender branches of legs and arms. Eyes, what could anything be said of them save for their lack of meaning? But yet, which could only entrance and bewilder. It was an illness that would only impale us, those, you and I - who could see the wonderment in such ordinary flesh. I can’t quite think of the times I’ve

dreamed you whole.