Her sweaty palms held onto mine as she was grasping onto life, her grip loosened as if she was giving up, while all I could think about is if she could see me up there; If she could see the blue rivers intertwining like the weakened veins on her dying body. 
I couldn't do anything. I want her to see that blue house over the hill, it was in terrible condition but it reminded me of her. The tips of her hair tore apart and never ceased to disgust others, but they were beautiful to me; beautiful like the cracked paint on that house's walls.
Her throat, dry and boney, just like a broken faucet, Cold like her body; yet warm like when she loved me.

Here I am, in the hospital as if it were a cliche romance, with him in my arms. But instead of kissing her, all I could do was give a melancholy stare, forcing myself to look at her corpse.
I pray she can see our blue house, where the beryl sky and cerulean horizon meet; praying she can see our son, who loved the color of the cobalt flowers that sit upon her memorial.