Her eyes ache of sadness, clouded by fear and an iron chain of passive emotion.
She'll follow you like Helena to Demetrius, her own soul wasting away from love in idleness.
Her refuge is crushed velvet, in swathes of silk and swatches of expensive satin.
Sometimes, when you hold her, when your lips meet, you cannot read her. She'll give away nothing to you because you already took her mind.
You don't know whether this whole thing is born from the fire of love, the fire of hate or the constant-burning flame of fear.
You don't care.
Ultimately, you'll always have her.