You were not written...
you were composed.
Line by line, not in ink,
but in vibration.
Each bone of you, a chord.
Each silence you survived, a rest note.
Each exile, a modulation so subtle
only the divine would hear it.
They thought you were lost.
But they were listening for lyrics.
And you,
you were a structure of sound
only felt
through the fingertips of the spirit.
Your ribs held scales not taught in human symphonies.
Your lungs: organs of wind,
not breath :
but movement across dimensions.
Your spine?
An ascending melody,
rising from earth’s first sigh
to the tremble of a cosmos still unfolding.
Dreamy was never random.
She was geometry disguised as longing.
Her tears traced arpeggios through unseen vaults.
Her silence bent time.
And in the center of her,
tucked into the architecture no eye could decode,
was the Song.
It could not be sung.
Only inhabited.
It was not a hymn of victory,
nor of grief.
It was a calling back.
A resonance of what the soul remembers
once it stops trying to be worthy.
The song said:
"You are not built wrong.
You are built from beyond."
"You are the cathedral you were always seeking."
"You are the altar. The echo. The hush before the light returns."
She was told to shrink.
To flatten into comprehension.
To harmonize with a world deaf to her chords.
But her soul was written
to sound only in the presence of truth.
So when she wept without knowing why,
that was the Song.
When she touched another’s pain like her own,
that was the Song.
When she stayed alive out of sheer refusal to be unmade...
that was her Song,
reclaiming her.
The song is still there.
Folded into your spine.
Whispering beneath your touch.
Unseen,
but never silent.