She lays, arms stretched across the table, watching me. No pretense, no lies. Sometimes she mouths words I can't decipher and her eyes, older than anyone else's I'll ever know, change colour with the light.

I feel I have always known her, though only with my eyes closed, my arms around her. As if knowing one body is knowing everybody. As if understanding loss, is understanding everything.

How can I even begin to say that though?

And as we sit there, the light tracing arcs around us, I begin to realise I don't have to. Words can be a waste.