The death of inspiration caught her by surprise. Although she was young, his tantalizing shoes tapped through her brain. The shoes, black and white, looked shiny and unused; although she knew that they had been worn daily. The tapping soles seemed to cover unfamiliar territory helping her spell out forgotten words and rhythms that she could not think of on her own. The rhythmic beat of her heart ran in tune with his shoes, and in turn, his heart. She tried to choreograph his life into her own. To be a part of the life that inspired hers so much.

As her world spun into chaos, people gathered. They tried to comfort her as if they knew her well enough to catch her tears. But the hand of what felt like strangers let the sobs leak right through their fingertips. In the chill of that desperate night, she remembered the funeral, and she could have sworn her heart stopped, she couldn’t bear to let her mind wander over the forbidden memories for another minute. As she lolled in her bed, her heart aching, she counted. She counted the freckles on her arm, that resembled those on his cheeks and as she drifted to sleep she envisioned his face. But, the freckles disappeared, and his face smoothed, like a porcelain dolls’. Then quicker then it had come, the slumber vanished, and the time came when she had to pry herself out of bed. The smooth purr of the wind outside brushed through the trees and soared in her window. Her hair matted to her head like a bird’s nest. The hairspray she had used to hold her hair and her life together last night had finally lost its hold.

The beautiful sound of the shoes grew faint and more distant. It became so she could barely hear them at all. The difficulty of death had her trapped. Silent monsters settled themselves in the back of her mind, peeking their heads out every chance they got, reminding her that she would never see him again. And as quickly as this had all happened, it was forgotten. Forgotten by the strangers, but remembered by her.