Her cheeks, like Soviet marble, so sunken into her mouth.

Her lips, protrusions of blood-filled pillows, waiting to smother.

Her hair, the finest of pagan silks, wrapped in winter seclusion.

Her eyes...my God, her eyes; the color of an ocean death, the shape of a spider's web, the glare of a broken window.

Her eyelids, the closing of a widow's coffin.

Her eyebrows, arches leading to an abandoned room.

I remember Anja.