House Of Leaves

Her bones are showing. And even if that was a normal thing, it sounded kind of like a death sentence, as if the flesh would slide off and you could start counting each rib. One, two, six, four, seven, eight, nine, more. Of course, once you start thinking about these things, you start seeing skeletons everywhere. You stop sleeping and begin scribbling notes in the margins of your books, start carving your initials into every wooden surface you find. Just to satisfy that strange desire for permanence. 

By spring she'll probably be gone. Sunk into the earth and lost among the new budding tendrils of green. Or swept into the river and into a seagrave. Either way, there will be nothing left to find, not even a ghost. It's selfish of me, but I hope spring never comes. That way, she can never die.