It is said to be just a shell. Without the warmth, without the life, it is nothing more than a carcass.
What of our memories?
What of the soft hands that held mine, or of the hair that grazed my skin with warmth and flowing grace?
They are testimonies. That shell serves as a reminder of things long gone. Every emotion ever felt, every experience with what is now that carcass... If I was not so naive... If I had only tried to remember or even tried to take a second to recollect, I would not have just stood there. I would not have handled the carcass, emotionless, disgusted at the thing, as it was filthy, infested, and rotting. I would have taken it in my arms, and I would relive every sensation, and recall every memory. I would feel the palms that held me, and brought me warmth. I would feel the hair brush on my skin one last time. I would hold our bodies close, carcass to carcass, and find one last stir of warmth. Only for that moment, it is not just a shell. The carcass is a carcass, but to me it should have been more. It was a part of me. I lost myself as I lost what was once in the carcass.
I found love as she died in my arms.
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