Quietude - she invented it; a carefully woven spell in a world just a bit further than her own, understandable, but empty. Eternal emptiness stretching forth toward its sempiternal sovereignty - but who is she to speak and destroy her crafted technology, one that took years to weave?

Reach just a bit further, my Dear, across the darling teapots and the tufts of white, playful smoke, vapor that will cling to your delicate arms. A bit further - I watch you stretch - and your nails, raking the air silently, waft the mist away, let it gather beneath the slight over-extension of your fingers, those banners of femininity. Your eyes are wide, your hair blonde and tired, as if it never meant to be that shade, it was an accident at birth. And how I would reach for you, too. You have no understanding of my longing.

The tea cup clatters slightly as your chest, curved and small, knocks softly into it, that abandoned white vessel of chamomile. The table drinks its sweetness, tablecloth stealing the liquid like a handkerchief takes tears, drying the face of a princess, her days long since passed. Have you ever seen a fairytale princess? I have. Do you know what makes her so funny, so charming and sweet? Do you know what makes her locks curl like champagne rivers and starlight? Have you felt her hands, unmanicured in their softness, slices of apricot silk, and do you know what gives them this edge? Unreality, my Love. Unreality and the curse of what truly is. Yet even a princess in her tower does not speak as softly as you.

The tea is warm but you do not care. One might suppose this is best as they turn their heads toward the other side. Warmth... No desire for it, no longing. Heat, appetite rapid, flame... No craving, no desideration. You take to the cold as if you were a ghost. You ignore the tea, you ignore the lace table cloth. You reach toward me with eager hands, magical in their beautiful sadness, now pulling at the fabric covering, trying to pull your form closer. You - you, you. Your dress shimmers like milk in the sunlight. The tea is soaking it; you do not care. You, you do not... Did you ever? Will you, ever?

Only an inch away now, I watch your lips part. I feel them from within me, every inch. They've been silent for too long, docile sails of speech forgotten by the wind of breath. Your eyes are expectant pots of green. Do not speak, do not speak... There is no need, none, my Dear. Do not let the syllables fall. Do not speak, do not speak, do not speak; -

They are shaping now. Pain must be your closest friend, even closer to you than I. Do you enjoy the silence of my remark?

"Ghost..." You whisper. It is a broken plain of shattered ice, blue puzzle pieces of cold, of howling wind, of a summer-landscape frozen over and marked for dead. Your respirations shake slightly, trembling with the lack of effort, breaking apart your chest, shattering your everything with a moment of weakness, and I love you for it, the tea on your dress, your weak figure slumped over this party like a sentiment long forgotten, your smile, your pieces. Do you believe in me, or did adulthood steal that away, too? You invented me because of the silence, because of the overwhelming machinations wracking your mind, the moments that are drowned by reality.

And so forward I reach to take your hand - I, your invention of cold.

You wither like September, falling back into your chair, "It is easier to believe in you."