He brushes a strand of hair away from her cheek; whispy, pale, and soft upon the callus of his aged hand. She speaks and he smiles, adoring the words even though her voice is nought but a faint whisper that struggles from her lips. As always, she is dressed in pink; her favorite color. He compliments her beauty still, just as he did long years ago. Her hand is frail and lined with veins of pale blue, her skin is scarcely thinner than a sheet of parchment. However, her frailty does not prevent him from holding on as tightly as he dares. She is so tired, but he doesn't want to say goodbye. He will never want to. "Just stay a little longer, love. Please," He asks, his voice weathered and worn with tenderness. It is hard for her to deny him, but she does it anyway. Tears wet his cheeks now, gleaming in the low light as he bears his heart to the woman who holds it. Her own are dry, but they are full of love. She is ready, she has been ready for a very long time. "I love you," She whispers, the effort put into saying the words all too obvious in the tightening skin around her eyes. Her desperation is evident, and he knows it cannot be put off any longer. She smiles one last time as he kisses her brow. His lips linger there, tears sliding over his cheeks and falling down onto her cool skin. By the time he pulls away, she has already closed her eyes. He cries freely now, but his sobs fall on deaf ears. Cradling her limp hand in his own, he kisses her fingertips and knows in his heart that there has never been a sweeter farewell.