She glittered like a million stars, thousands of twinkling lights.
She walked as if the universe belonged to her; Like she was as beautiful as the moon, a soothing silver crescent on an ebony canvas. In her absence, the night was empty. Dark. Dead.
A silent, clouded swirl of grim fog and mist, perfect tendrils sweeping the sky like a fallen angel's fingers. Nothing was the same, and it seemed like it could never be.
But when she was around, everything was light, to a point where it was almost blinding. Burning; Beautiful; Brilliant.
The sky would glitter with her purity, like piles upon piles of glistening diamonds. And she would sing a song; Her song.
A song of the pitched night, with hooted owls' melodies and a symphony of blissful crickets. A song with a beat of fireflies, just out of reach, imitating the singer, the conductress, herself.
A song with all the emotions of a cool, dying rainstorm; A song of a faint memory, forgotten eons ago. She was an emotion, an abstract thought of fantasy. She was a supernova.