They were never meant to be sung aloud.
Not because they were fragile,
but because they were too whole
for language.
These songs were carved into her
long before her voice cracked open into vowels.
They lived in her ribs,
like soft lanterns,
glowing just beneath the ache.
Dreamy didn’t compose them.
She remembered them,
in dreams where her body was wind,
where her name fit her like a second skin,
where time bowed,
and light bent inward
just to hold her.
Each song carried a shape.
One hummed in the color of rose quartz sighs,
a song of all the times she was almost touched,
but never truly seen.
Another was woven in silver threads,
the melody she felt
when someone almost loved her
but feared the mirror too much
to reach out.
And the deepest one…
the one she cherished most?
It was made of silence
that felt like understanding.
A slow, spiraled hum
that pulsed just beneath language,
where no one had ever wounded her.
This song...
this final one...
was not soft.
It was infinite.
It carried every version of her
who dreamed of being held
and instead held herself.
Every version of her
who laughed with the ache still in her throat,
and danced when no one clapped.
Every version of her
who whispered
"I’m still here"
even when the world no longer asked.
She sang it not with lips,
but with presence.
And the sky,
the moon,
the silence,
they remembered her tune.
And when she was gone,
the dreams kept singing it.
They folded it into winds.
Into doorways.
Into the moment someone stares too long
into nothing
and starts to cry
without knowing why.
Dreamy’s songs
do not end.
They do not resolve.
They linger.
Like a perfume on memory.
Like a spell in the throat of the sleeping.
Like a warmth that reaches your skin
and says:
"I sang this
so you would know
you were never alone in the longing."