I could still hear the beautiful sorrow of her fingers on the keys, see the outline of her porcelain-like neck and shoulders as she moved with the rhythm of her playing.
And all this, despite her being gone.
I, and I alone, remained – just me and the ghost of her memory.
I sat and looked down upon where she had bloomed, had seduced, had ignited the hall with her playing and her beauty.
She would return night after night, filling the seats with people caught up in her music, none of them aware of her sorrow, of our shared heartbreak.
And, after each performance, she would stand and glance for a second at where I sat, each night seeming like she had actually seen me.
And then she would leave, without me, leaving me here, still.