Today.

She died today. 

There was this girl I 
knew–
not for long, though, for long enough, I don't know–
she had this 
long,
silky, 
dark hair that swished a little when she walked. 

She had pale skin. 
Her eyelashes were long but thin, sweeping thin lines
casting shadows
spidery
delicate and brittle and fragile–like her bones. 

Her fingers tapered and sharpened at the ends,
a marionette's fingers,
perhaps. 

I didn't know her well enough
to know if she was a nice person.

I scratched the surface and saw
an Asian girl, a pretty one too, with sharp
angles and hollowed cheeks.

I looked and when I looked I saw
a girl who listed a bit in the
wind
whose eyes had two eyelids each–like
an alligator–
a film that rarely lifted, like she was in her own
world.

They said that was part of her charm. 
The girl who dreamed too much.

She died today.

It was dark. Too dark. The air was a knife against slivers of exposed skin
peeking over the tops of collars, beneath hats, between layers of
scarf.
All it took was a step in the road, a film over the eyes, 
one wrong move.
On the spot, she died.

And I knew her, but not well enough.