I speak in riddles to myself, rhyming sounds with curious texture. Inside only, indoor voice. A taste of quiet slowly dissolving on the tongue like lost seawater seeping back into forgotten sand. There are green and grey oceans too far out of reach, skies made of time spent searching for the perfect cove, that golden, isolated beach where I can fall face down into the surf, begging fate to throw me to the will or wisdom of the waves.
Five hand drawn lines uncluttered by notation reveal the only song I truly know. Certainty, like tiny beads of morning dew, evaporates on approach, relocated to the eyes I hardly ever use to see the dirt or dust. The world, a frothing, fretting lake of fierce and fearful feeling, will never hear my song, will never learn to listen, will fall apart and fall away and fall just like the first time round and so we start again.