A/N: I wrote this story about a half a year ago, figured it at least deserved to be posted. I hope you enjoy it. )


Dance steps clatter with every step she takes. Smooth, calculated, echoes of how much she hates to be forgotten. The bedroom is all her own and she doesn't even see her own reflection as she waltzes away into the wee hours of the morning, dust collecting on her shoulders like an antique china doll.

Alone.

Her mind is on you. It's always on you. And tonight of all nights, she wants nothing more but to feel your arms around her as she sways to the music only she can hear, because maybe - just maybe - if you were there with her, you might hear it too.

Sleep won't come easy. It always slips away like the fleeting hours of the evening. Abandonment seeps through like the touches you've forgotten, but they never knew them, and neither did she. You could feel your lover's hands against your hips the whole time but while you had actual attachment, she had nothing but her imagination to keep her company. To keep her safe.

To make her feel more than you ever did, more than you could ever know.

The soft glow of light casts on her from an old table lamp, dank and small; but nothing ever looked so golden. Some how you found your way beneath her own substance, under the song that she used to call her own and pride herself on the fact that only she could hear it, because it belonged only to her.

But she traded that song for your heart long ago, along with the golden glow she used to call her own. Just this once - if no one would ever know - would you forget that broken, angelic face of hers?

Don't answer. Don't break the silence that fell over her like a mystic's spell, the song she used to call her own. The song may not her hers, that heart doesn't even belong to that shell now, and not even the dance she's weaving at this very moment is hers to keep.

But if she knew your answer, she'd scream. She would show the world the meaning of the word "devastation", total annihilation in a final gasp of breath. Our ears would break along with that stolen heart you keep locked away in your chest, like a greedy child hoarding his sister's toys, and break the key like a thousand little splinters between your palms.

And this terrifies her, because she knows that those final words - that scream of anguish and emptiness - wouldn't even belong to her, not now.

It'd belong to you.