She speaks to me in whispers drifting through the willows,
Satiating my empathy in sips of gold,
Reminding me that ones’ blood only runs cold when the heart stops beating.
She speaks to me in raindrops pelting against the rooftop,
When my sadness is too heavy to bear and my gratitude too great to burden.
Reminding me that it’s okay to weep, even if the ducts ran dry a while ago.
She speaks to me in sunlight dancing off my lashes,
When my eyes cast down towards the ground and the stranger’s soul drifts in opposite direction.
Reminding me that I still have a voice even if I can’t remember how it sounds.
– BIATA, ‘silence‘