Where the Music Waits
I shine a light into the dark and the stars scatter like seeds, blooming across the night sky. Each one flickers like a memory I almost recognize—too distant to name, too bright to forget. I drift between lives, between skins, searching for a vessel strong enough to hold what still beats inside me.
The music never lands. It hovers—fragmented chords, half-formed longing. Every note I chase dissolves before I can breathe it in. The road unravels beneath my feet, worn by every version of myself I’ve been. My bones remember the weight. My shadow stumbles, carrying ghosts I didn’t choose.
The hardest part isn’t where I’m going.
It’s the smoke of where I’ve burned.
Even when I lift the night like a veil, the darkness behind it remains—thicker, older. The ache in my chest echoes louder than my footsteps. I reach for breath, but only silence fills my lungs. Words crumble before they reach the air. Grief presses down like ash.
Sometimes I wonder if the path ever shifts—
or if I walk it again and again, wrapped in different skin, beneath borrowed skies.
I close my eyes. A pale light returns—not sunlight, but something older. Something that knows me. It brushes across my skin like a forgotten lullaby, like the hush before the storm that began it all. For one breathless moment, the music trembles at the edge of sound.
I pause.
I listen.
I wait.
And still, the song does not come.
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