She was the sound of glass shattering, the sharp ringing in your ears. The perpetual motion of a spinning ballerina trapped inside a music box. The sad tinny tune of La Vie en rose.
She was the zig-zag in your straight line. The absence in your direction. She was every turn you took when racing through a hedge maze, against the setting sun.
She was the tide that came in and out, like the breath of the wounded. She was the blood that flowed between heart and head.
She was the book that was not written. The sentence that was not scripted. She was the word you wished you could have said.