Mama sits under the sun singing to herself, humming to the wind, telling me that you could make stories out of shadows if your mind's not too worn out and your heart's really in it, and I promise myself that someday I'll spin tales out of fire and magic out of thin air.
Mama has callused skin as she tells me the earth is kind to those who are willing to get their hands dirty, who don't shy away from a spot of blood, the ones who put in the hard yards come rain or shine, and the rain falls steady like silver diamonds as we sip coffee on wasted days.
Mama is long gone up there somewhere in the skies slow dancing with the stars until she became one herself and I pick up my pen and claw at the wind, chasing words in a room half lit trying to remember that anything could be poetry if my heart's really in it.
Sometimes I forget that it has been three sunrises and two sunsets since I last listened to a song the clock is a hurricane and time is quicksand as it glides through my outstretched palms and heeds the charms of the shrieking waves.
Audrey, sometimes you write in a daze, the words flowing from your hand like polished quicksilver painting pictures without a canvas, yet you never seem to name your characters and simply watch them drift from page to page and chapter to chapter a birth without a death a beginning without end.
This is the silence the quiet that kills and the shadow that saves, a battle fought between a paper heart and an iron will, no bullets or gunfire to be heard or left behind it's been a while since I heard rain outside my window, but all it takes is the whisper of your voice floating into my ears to remind me what music truly feels like.