Silence used to be beautiful. It was hesistant, fleeting, modest; it never drew attention to itself, crept in on tiptoe so as not to disturb us, lying on the grass.
Silence used to be beautiful because he was there. Silence used to be beautiful because he was beautiful. Silence is cold. It slithers gently over bathroom tiles, sucking the sound away.
Sometimes, I think it likes to listen. Sometimes, I think it likes to listen to its own voice breaking into pieces. I used to dream of a somewhere. Somewhere was beautiful; peaceful.
It cradled safety in motherly arms, teaching it to fly. I had a lot of somewheres, once upon a time. And every single one lead to him. Sometimes, I feel silence in the rain.
It brushes me with its wings, barely touching my skin but sparking memories drenched in acid. They burn as they trickle over my body. Sometimes, I think I see a somewhere in the stars.
I talk to them sometimes, to see if he is there. In my somewheres, he is always there. But he never responds. Sometimes, I hear his voice.
It is so clear inside my mind; they think I'm crazy. Sometimes, I think I am too.