Frail and fragile
She held onto everything. The intricacies in his touch, the tone of his voice, the contours of his body, the moles randomly placed, the way he curled towards her during a bad dream, his breath on her naked body. She held his hand tight as life ebbed out of him. He would be gone soon and all she would be left with were the memories. And the white paper flowers he made her the day before his tragic accident. The paper flowers that lay by his bed side now. She had mocked them for their fragility, for their unreal nature, for their lack of fragrance. She impatiently waited for him to open his eyes so she could show him the red paper flowers she had made for him. Instead, he mocked her with his frail body, a weakening heart and a smell of sickness that clung to him.