She lingered on the white pillow
taking only the slightest teaspoons of air
in tiny random bites,
resting here and there.
Together we watched her paleness.
She fluttered as a slight, silver moth would,
but even softer and more slowly,
when nearer to the light.
Her pond was almost still.
The air was quiet,
rippled only by the piano
and our softened voices.
Then she tired,
closed the book
and left her story safe within us all.