It wasn't the way she walked or the way she spoke.

It wasn't even the way she was so distant, mysterious, perplexing, an everlasting enigma. It wasn't the way she could never quite articulate the distance from her body or the distance from everyone else.

It wasn't the way she didn't want to be kissed and only wanted *** because it was rough and made her feel something. It wasn't the way she loved ****** art, the way it looked at a ****** scene.

It wasn't the way she could smile. Intense. Everything she did was all or nothing, everything was the intensity of one extreme or the other. The only conception of "in-between " she had, was love.

It was the way she walked away, leaving behind a massacre of broken hearts.

*(you never had me at "hello", but god, what an impression of "goodbye")