The Dancer

The notes I heard playing were like small girl's steps upon a mirrored floor, softened by ballet slippers though still chime like upon the points of contact with her other self. The dance continues on, growing sadder as time ebbs and limbs lengthen. Maturity stretches her against her self and replaces the chime like steps with deeper intoned placements. Innocence is usurped by purpose. A different kind of beauty etches itself against the glass with slippers. As the notes fade, she folds onto the glass, wilting in within her age until she and her reflection are an indiscernible mass returned to one another.