Couldn't you feel the dust from fingertips that traced print as if it'd know flames tomorrow?
Couldn't you feel the coldness of an empty bed deserted long ago to candlelit expeditions into lost rooms of ancient pyramids?
Couldn't you see the craters forming underneath the eyes of someone who dreamed of picnics on the moon?
Couldn't you see the color in her cheeks from sunlit days in meadows with Thoreau, Hemingway, Plato, and Longfellow?
Couldn't you see the flimsy rib cage of a thought-starved girl whose curiosity hungered like soggy wildflowers for sun?

And she was curious about everything, but her most curious of her curiosities was you.