RATING: PG-13

TIMELINE: Set during the summer after 'Graduation Part I/II'.
SUMMARY: Buffy's thoughts on herself and her relationship with Angel. Buffy's letting the ocean drops fall....
DISCLAIMERS: Buffy and Vampire Slayer and Angel created by Joss Whedon. All hail this man. Characters do not belong to me.
DISTRIBUTION: E-mail me first.
FEEDBACK: If you want to, e-mail me. If not, then don't.
DEDICATION: Ae'va, thanks for the beta-ing. Wonderful job once again! =D

Her lips are dry and taste like salt, the taste of the ocean. Red lipstick is smudged across them. Her fingertips are cold and numb and the same lipstick lingers on them too. A burnt tongue licks those lips and taste the tears that taste like salt...from the ocean. Lipstick touches her tongue and she digests that taste. It feels bitter and melancholy and makes her want to die.

Can you taste the want of death? Yes, yes you can. She tastes it. So it must be fine to taste such things. No, no.

Her porcelain, ivory face is streaked with black on her cheeks. Cheeks that were once rosy and kissed had had tingles, but now no longer. Black has come from her eyes. Her eyes are black and empty and she just pleads God to fill this void. No, can't do that. Hurts too much, I suppose.

You can't feel it can you? No, you never could.

She stares blankly at herself and sees a shell of what she once was. It doesn't startle her, not the way it once would. Her reflection stares back equally as gone as herself. Her eyes are dead and there are black circles around them. It reminds her of an abyss.

Windows to the soul are those eyes. Can you see hers? Tell me, can you really see her? No, you never could do that either.

Her body trembles and shakes from the cold. It wasn't cold in the room. Just cold inside her. Cold and dark and, and...no warmth from skin. Perhaps she should get a sweatshirt. No, it takes too much work to walk from one side of the room to the other. She's too tired to move. She blinks back more of the ocean drops. Oceans like to roar though. Ocean drops get their way. She damns herself, damns the boy, damns him over and over...that doesn't do good. She's far too skinny now.

What ever happened to that happy girl? That was the bigger one.

The phone rings and her heart jumps with useless hope, once again. Her stomach flips over. He had always made her belly do the tricks of a dolphin. She whispers for him, saying the name over and over; a monotone chant. Praying for a response, for a comforting word or two even, but none comes, just the sound of her distant voice repeating his name. She remembers being told she was his. Or so he said, and she wasn't to blame for her belief. After all she was the victim of meaningless words from a counterpart soul.

She shakes her head violently. Do you remember being so alike?

She wants to know what she did wrong. Nothing she did was wrong, of course. She was a perfect beauty in his eyes. Sad faced angel lets her mind wonder what was wrong with her.

She wasn't good enou---Why did he run away? Ancient memories swirl in her head, coming from the distant place she hid them well in. Her eyes drop to the ground; It doesn't matter anyway.

She has forgotten his scent. She remembered his arms moving, legs lifting in motions, but recalling what the scent was did not come to her. She was clinging to a piece of cloth and wanted to hold it forever, cherish it and wrap herself up in it. Gripping it in tight little fists and holding it close to her frame, for she breathed in his scent. It was all over her now, overpowering her senses...a memory, she realized. Her arms wrap themselves over her knees and she huddles in the corner, rocking slowly to a nonexistent beat. She wishes she could understand why she loved him so.

Confusing thoughts run swiftly in circles and don't seem to stop. Round and round and never ending, never stopping in her head.

Make it stop? She knows he can. He makes her heart stop with mischievous smiles and silent understanding. His eyes pierce...like black coffee. They drank coffee one time, long ago. She fell down after they finished, and he was already gone before she could get back up.

Her lips are shut tight, sticky from the lipstick; stuck shut from words. She turns away then. It took little to prove he didn't love her. No words were spoken, no shrill ringing from the talking device, no want of touch, no smiles, no want of seeing with eyes, no nothing. Actions spoke louder then words that were never spoken.

It took nothing to prove he didn't love her.

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