Where Glitter Fell

You arrived in a room that could’ve been a hall,
or a dream of a hall,
or some old memory disguised as space.

A figure stood beside a table.
He held what looked like a garland, or a string of something once inside
pinkish, soft, almost ceremonial.
He began peeling back the membrane.
Beneath it: a shape, firm and unmistakable.
With slow, practiced hands, he affixed each one
to the waiting body stretched before him—
a form without features, without resistance.
The movements were not hurried.
They belonged to some old rite that no longer explained itself.

Around you: men.
Or silhouettes of them.
The space hummed with restraint, with something unsaid but felt.
Not threat exactly,
but the kind of silence that knows how to keep a secret.

Then she appeared.

Not announced. Not centre stage.
Just a girl, small and silvered,
walking a diagonal path through the air.
Her dress shimmered like something borrowed from another world.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
Halfway through, her heel slipped.

She fell.
Fully.
A collapse so swift it felt ritualistic.

Laughter scattered through the crowd—
not joy, but defence.
The sound of people protecting their distance.

She rose again.
Gathered what remained of herself.
And left without turning back.

Only then did someone, older perhaps,
speak from the edge of the room—

“The deeper the love,
the less you need to hold it.”

No one replied.
No one clapped.
But the sequins on the floor caught the light
like broken beliefs.

Still glowing.
Still refusing to settle.

Notitia | attending to the shimmer that falls and doesn’t fall away
A page from The Book of Glamorous Unbecoming