The last time we spoke she said that caterpillars crawl all over her skin.
I found that to be strange.
She was 9 years old.
Brown curly hair, green eyes, short attention span.
When she called for me I would sing because her voice was a melody.
When she cried her tears wrote symphonies.
When she died I could see her name in the clouds.
The last time we spoke, a few days after,
butterflies crawled all over my skin