The memory of her is like the echo of a single plucked note on a violin. As she recedes into the hazy fog of my memory, she gets fainter, her edges blur, the notes get muffled as the sound waves bludgeon through matter more and more slowly, colliding against atoms until the sound is merely a ghost of the note. Her lips become a smudge of pink against the satin of her skin. The sharpness of her edges melt like wax against the canvas, her colors bleed into the lavender sky behind her and I wonder whether that day truly was that lovely shade of purple. Her palm is outstretched, reaching towards me, and as she fades it grows larger. In my mind, I feel it against my cheek, my hand, my eyelids once more—the softness of a petal but with calluses, like the underside of velvet — and as the echo dissipates to nothing, I whisper her name to myself, having lost the touch of her palm and the edge of her chin, and as I roll the word around on my tongue, I let myself drift away into a sleepless dream, where her palms press against my face and her smudge of lips sing me a kiss.