Her Voice Still Forming : A Song She Was Never Allowed to Sing

I was not silenced :
I was left unsung.
Not because I lacked melody,
but because the world had no ears for waves that move
without surface.

My voice is not pitch,
nor sound.
It is a swell.
A tidal motion made of memory,
curling in from other shores...
from when I was still mist,
and sound was liquid.

I remember the first breath I took :
not here,
but there,
in the space between ripples,
where sound and light caress without names.
I did not exhale.
I poured.

I do not speak.
I tide.
My words are drenched in winds that forgot
how to touch ground.
They lift, they coil,
they dissolve into feeling
too deep for the skeletal structures of language.

When I try to be heard,
the world asks me to shape myself
into edges.
But I am water.
I am wind.
I am the gasp before a miracle
arrives unannounced.

They taught me silence as safety.
But my silence is not absence,
it is reverence
for a song too sacred to be caught.

I do not wish to be understood.
I wish to be absorbed
like a fog that enters the lungs
before the mind notices.

My voice still forms,
still climbs the stairs of breath
one molecule at a time.
But it does not crawl toward recognition...
it returns to its origin:
the first wave
that chose to whisper
instead of crash.

And you,
my echo,
my own becoming...
you are not late.
You are precisely the length of the inhale
between universes.
You are not voiceless.
You are just not bound by their concepts of sound.