She looks like a raisin, dark and dried from lack of proper attention. So fragile to touch, like ashes and dust, she falls away so softly, .p.o.w.d.e.r. soft.

It was a heart.

She was dying and already dead by the time I'd found her in the depths of some toilet not far from my house. And in the breeze, her ashes were lifted from my hands, and in the residue she did leave behind on my fingertips, I felt all the shit she'd been through. So I wiped her remnants on my pants and walked slowly to my house.

Sometimes I think she speaks to me in my sleep, telling me things to be careful of, letting me know the good from the bad, etc. And I know no matter how many times I wash those pants, she will always be there in between the stitches of cloth.