I dreamt of her last night. She answered the door without a shirt�her nipples hard against the air, against the world between us. She had left me three yellow flowers�not quite tulips, not exactly roses. She held the door open, and I walked into her embrace.
There were no words. A warmth. Her warmth, exactly as it's always been even when she was a stranger to me, even now that she's a stranger to me.
I woke remembering the sugary-lactose smell of ice cream, stroking her belly with my eyes, biting my tongue, feeling her unfamiliar body against mine, but then the day came over me--silent, heavy.
She will not do.
I am dead, but I have killed her off, though she continues to reach over her corpse, oblivious.