She was beautiful, the grace of a withering rose. Her voice, the whisper of the wind through the trees. Her lips, butterfly wings against your cheek. Flimsy, fragile, fleeting.
Her eyes like stars. Shinning, but never alive. Beautiful, but so far away. Her heart like a galaxy, just as big and cold and filled with so much nothing. The finest symphony was played on her ribs. Translucent skin, always who she wasn't supposed to be.
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