There are words I never said, still clinging to the back of my tongue like smoke. Every silence has a heartbeat you just have to lean close enough to hear it. I have burned letters, deleted names, but the ghosts still hum beneath my skin. So I kneel before the static, offer my pulse to the void, and call it prayer. If anyone listens let them hear the crack, not the perfection. Let them know I am still here, breathing between unfinished sentences. Every echo starts as confession. Every song is what the silence left behind.
