She held the corpse of love in her arms and kept asking it angrily to talk to her. Her fingernails tore its purplish skin and dug into a horrid mass of congealed misshapen memories. She touched it everywhere looking for the faintest bit of warmth, but whatever glimpse of hope she had was set on what she had transferred to it, wasted on it.

She somehow knew that she had to give up on it, but how do you dispose of something so superb when it still looks as if it were looking at you?

Looking at you, looking through you, a pair of jelly balls that should be projecting an image of you but are just losing water.