Dust bunnies in the parlour

She was a svelte girl with gentle mannerisms. She could only see backward but from behind her past saw straight through her with rose tinted spectacles. She was the product of foul play and her whole life seemed to have reflected so.

She wore poppies pressed between glass on a silver chain around her neck and dozens of jagged, stone rings. Bells hung in pools around her ankles and she had lace socks on but no shoes. Vintage black, cotton fabric hung loosely from her body and grazed the floorboards behind her as she waltzed alone. It was torn and sheering from old age, threads flitted through the air and swayed in her feminine gait. Dust danced about her dancing feet in shafts of brilliant sunlight.

Sad, stepping in time to the music playing behind her eyes the bells on her ankles rang out for all to give ear. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, she never once raised her hand to usher them away. Blinking shallow and slow, ne’er shifting her gaze she continued in a pirouette of despair.

It’s graceful, it’s painful to watch; peeping through the window half jarred shut with its cracked glass and dust film. I can barely make out her silhouette but I just know she’s breathtakingly beautiful and charming even through bloodshot eyes.

I want to creep through the darkened halls into the parlour to hold her. Want to breathe life back into this elegant dove of lost lustre and love. I know she can be great again, but I don’t think she wants to be anything anymore. She’s lost deep in the ships bough. Ship named depression, ship named the end. And now the ship is sinking hundreds of miles offshore into the deepest, darkest depths of the ocean and I can’t swim.

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