I walked alone on a cold night, through trees and over graves, to meet my dancing partner. She was solemn and sweet, but thin, too thin; a skeleton. I held her and we spun and swayed in the dark, under the stars. Soon her brittle fingers were warm and lush between mine, and She smiled: not my smile, but my lips, my eyes and skin. Not me but a ghost wearing my face. Slowly as we danced, her body swelled and filled, thicker and warm. She was smaller then me, her bones too short, my skin too loose on her slim wrists and hips. My own  heartbeat slowed as I felt hers grow beneath her ribs. We twirled under the stars and she dipped me, now light, low to the ground, yet no blood rushed to my cheeks, my heart skipped no beat but lacked one entirely. She gasped, a first breath; new and refreshed, Alive. No air flowed to my lungs, for I found that I had none. She lay me gently on the grass, disturbing the nights dew and wetting my skull. She walked away with all of me, and I wondered if anybody ever noticed that I was not me, but a dead girl wearing skin.