in the house where sweet tulip roots fed off rotten wood, where dark, faded mirrors watched her cold breaths tremble, where scars ran deep like poisoned blood and shouts echoed through the veined walls;
the frozen tile still warmed as her feet brushed ground and bluebirds puckered from her saccharine nectar as the blossoms peaked their eyes and the windows creaked, full of promise.
seven years and we sprinted through tall grass fields, wind chimes twinkling at each heave of breath and thin strands of gold-spun hair glistening like dew on morning leaves.
eight years and we climbed the tallest tree, rough bark cutting into smooth skin and fragrant scents of newborn pine sheathing the smell of freshly fallen tears.
nine years and she sat on the back of my bike, wind whipping her frail frame until each bone groaned and creaked at every brittle secret spilled from laced lips sewn shut with rusted needles.
and with every passing year, a sweet drop of youth fell from her mouth into mine, until smooth skin turned callous and pine and tears became a sickly new perfume.
thirteen years and i watched her hover in the mirror and probe her ribs with each pointed finger. “wouldn’t i be so much better like this?” she said. i laughed.
fifteen years and she was melting into the earth as i watched her blow on a daffodil, every exhale like a sharp knife, and her newly hollowed cheeks pulling taut to her bones.
in her house, the frozen tile stilled as weary feet tread and windows creaked, a broken whisper of her lost thread.
i wrapped my fingers over her thigh, thumb to thumb.