Ballerina

Overcast, the raindrops pattered on the casket like the discordant notes of an untuned piano.
What now?
The only thing she knew: dance.
She would move for hours, alone, in a darkened studio, forming poetry with elongated limbs and careful gestures, the only sound in the room the tap of ballet shoes on wood-panelled floor.
She span and span until she could forget, emulating the tempest in her head, the whirling winds of rage and grief inside of her-
Breathe.
She grasped the bar, head spinning, silent tears streaming down her face and hitting the floor, like the distant sound of raindrops on a casket.

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