The first time we met she had a purple ribbon in her hair. Pale eyes looked out at the soft breeze shifting the trees. A faint melody played, somewhere from the lobby. The second time we met, the ghastly smell and palpable stillness brought my attention to her white angelic form. The same piano played in the background. The third time we met, was the most alive I’d ever seen her. The breeze played with her lie down hair, as she ran fingers across the piano she sat at in the meadow.
Poetry
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