How detached are you really?

I wrote a poem about how detached...

The roar of their laughter
echos in the empty hallway
as she makes her
qiet getaway.
Socializing wasn't a priority.

She retreats to
a familiar room,
sitting down on
the charcoal bench,
in front of the piano.
A solitude,
her open hiding place.

Her hands, polished and sparing,
glide over the keys
as the silence
is broken by
The vibration of the strings.

She stops.
The desire to play
leaves her suddenly.
The sorrow seeps in again
causing her glowing light
to dim and flicker.
The taste of defeat
already on her lips.

Her life feels like
a delicate, falling leaf,
at the mercy of the wind,
fluttering uncontrollably
towards the ground
like golden snow.
There it will lay forgotten.
Over time, the fragments
will scatter leaving no evidence
it was ever there.