By Maddie Willigar | Editor-in-Chief
Her spirit still dances
on the piano keys, like an
unfinished composition of
words only uttered under the
solitude of twilight’s breath.
She whispers stories in the
ears of a once sane
man, a reprise that leaves
notes of the woman
he remembered –
until her figure looks a lot like
dust in moonlight, and her
dress looks a lot like curtains
dancing in the wind.
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