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It was her clavicle. Its delicacy. Like the herringbone of a corset. All I wanted was to run my fingers down it, slowly, slowly. Fingers lingering over exquisite bone, luminescent through smooth skin. I stared at her. Helpless. She smiled. Lovely. I knew that she would bring me pain. I sat and watched her, bent over and smelled her hair. Her shoulders, so thin, so pale, bristled as I inhaled shampoo mixed with fear. She offered me a smile. Tired, wanting, needing... and then peaceful and serene.  "I love you," I whispered, and bent down to slowly, slowly unbutton her shirt, exposing a body made thin, and a bra that was unnecessary. Skin that was translucent. My kisses were gentle, almost hovering above her, ghostlike, and still, she said, "Softer."Even my breath could blow her over. This was early in the evening and she would send me out for more, and I would falter, and she would look at me with those eyes, big, beautiful, and brown, framed by such soft lashes. And I would go. I knew that she was going to die. But it was partly this that drew me to her. She could not love me as much as I did her, for she already had a lover. One more potent and wielding then me, a lover that was softer. I knew that she would die. Selfishly my love for her grew on this idea. That this was not forever. That it could not be. I could give myself completely only to her because of this. In turn causing a certain degree of self-loathing, but I loved her, soft. She stroked my cheek. The back of her hand barely existing on my skin, skin also smooth as we stood body to body, matching each other as if in a fun house mirror. Bodies mirroring each other, her a grotesque version of my slightly Rubenesque form, pale and skinny, the lifting of her arm as if it, that pale, skinny thing, weighed a hundred pounds. I loved her. We met at a party, through a casual acquaintance. I knew her, then. We met in the back room over a thin, white line. The kind that burned then relieved. One that dulled the pain. Tragedy. Love. Now loss. I knew that she would die.  It was my first time, in that back room. She showed me exactly how it was done. Cutting me my own line, yet with giving me... on my own, she linked me to her, strapping me down with her, on that bed, in that life, in her life, together.It has been five years. Five years, I count them on one hand, five years I have loved her. It only took five minutes before I knew she would be leaving. A minute for each year. But I look at her now, through her, translucent, a trance over me. "Go," she whispers, pushing me out the door, from the gentle room of soft white light into the harsh reality of the street. People die out here, rougher, faster. It is good she stays inside. It would be too dangerous for her; I pull my coat around me, lurking in the shadows. The sun would be too strong. It would burn her, damage her, and erase her, making her a phantom on the sidewalk, her shadow burnt then disappearing. She will not last. She will disappear. I go, for her. Twisting down the streets, I am still able to walk, hurrying, to go home, to give her what she needs, to kiss her breasts, to part her thighs, soft. To breathe life back into her tired body. To hold her as she collapses, to let her rest. Then, for me. To get high enough to live with myself. To pretend that I am her. Our bodies are the same. Everyday I catch up, by losing. Skinny, skinny. She cannot go much farther, only bones. And I am catching her. Together we are disappearing. I mention this and she smiles, sadly. Her eyes dancing over my body. Her fingers tracing my cheekbone, a rip, my hip. She smiles. But it is one of sadness and I know that she was alone in this place for so long. She is sorry she brought me here. Sometimes she tells me, "I am sorry." She whispers and I can feel a tear but it is faint, passing between two worlds, translucent, a trance. I love her.  I am back and her weightlessness is becoming heavy. Her frailty a burden I cannot hold. I am afraid of going with her. Tying me down, binding me to her. Together we will fall through the worlds. In the void there is not anything. It is stifling, this oppression in falling.I touch her cheekbone. She does not feel it. I kiss her lips, heart shaped in their redness, stained with tears and blood and passion. I try to be, soft. It has been five years. Each year a minute in which she disappears and me, trying, so hard, so tenderly, trying to be soft. I watch her as she ties again, entering her own quiet realm. I watch her as she brings me with her. Quietly and so tender, she lays back in my arms, her body disappearing, her hair long and soft against my cheek, bones white as sun drenched phantoms, burnt upon the sidewalk and I whisper in her ear, "I love you." This time she does not hear me. This time there is no smile and I can see her brown irises through the translucent, trance of pale eyelids and I kiss away my tears that are falling on her cheek, bones as pale as oysters, I kiss them away, soft.
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