I know that she will outlive me. When I take my final breath, when my ribs start to cave in, and when my spine starts to break, and my skull falls to pieces, she will fill her lungs again. She will exhale what is left of me into your mouth, and you will disregard its bitter taste. She will stand up straight and watch as I begin to decay, and I will sit here patiently waiting for you to notice my absence. I will smile sweetly as you pawn after her steps, careful not to influence the prints from her feet. I will be the post that holds you up as you begin to fall harder. But my death will not be by accident or disease; it will be heart failure and she is the donor that never gave. The saddest part is that I am not angry with you. I am not angry with her. How could I be? How can the sick haste against the healthy, if the healthy never knew you were sick? How can the ill hate the thriving, if they cannot care for you? So still I stand here taking in any illness that you may conceive and add it to my ever-diminishing life span so that you may keep up with her. I will let her outlive me so that she will not mourn her loss of you but relish in your loss of me.