Pink, or rose quartz.
A cherry blossom lands on her lap. She drags her finger across a petal and its flesh clings to the edge of her nail, damaged and forgiving.
She is reminded of the scratch Shiki gave Mikiya the other day by accident: a rosy, raised line across his back, from a nick in the edge of her fingernail. Neither had really noticed.
Opening her eyes wide, she fancies she can see the lines of death for each cell, each compartment, each busy molecule of the flimsy petals in her palm. There, see, are the troughs and cavities where the cells had died, releasing their contents. Everything is made of too much; it's pointless. She sighs in the way that nothingness would sigh, if it could. She sighs and wonders if he would ever harm this body, nick its skin to draw a bright line - wonders if anyone would notice. The cells regenerate before her eyes.
See, it is pointless. She lets the blossom fall to the ground, folds her hands upon the pale pink silk of her lap, and closes her eyes to look inwards once again.