Juliet lays on her deathbed, mouthing the words to a wonderful song like a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen, might struggle to sing. She inhales ragged, quick breaths; exhales, lips quivering, moist, quiet murmurs in the dark where no one can hear. She whispers her song with the desperation of a sinner at confessionals, like a prayer, textured with a benevolent melody from the faraway days during which she believed herself to be invincible.

She aches for her Romeo, an incorrigible sort of feeling from which no wiser man or woman could talk her down. As her life slips from her frigid body, she clings to their anthem with a broken voice and small, wretched fingers which clutch and claw at nothing in particular.