She descended, not to escape,
but to listen to the song beneath her own gravity,
the one no surface has ever earned the right to echo.
Beneath her ribs,
where mortals store breath and ache,
she holds an entire ocean
of things she has never said aloud,
and things that no language could ever carry.
She does not remember beginning,
only the ache that came before stillness
had a name.
Her voice was not stolen.
It was submerged,
buried in crystalline layers of time,
waiting for the water to turn holy again
before it would rise.
Some days, her tides are soft and aching,
like fingertips trailing across an untouched truth.
Other days, they are full...
crashing, unnamed,
too vast to be gentle
and too sacred to be held.
You may think you see her.
But you do not see the whirlpool behind her gaze,
nor the galaxies she cradles
in the trembling hush between heartbeats.
She is not lost.
She is remembering
in a language slower than light
and far older than sound.
And when you ask,
"What is she made of?"
The answer is not "water,"
but the memory that made water necessary.