Though I exist in the realms of day and night, I'm only truly alive in the moments between.

What do you do when your words aren't enough? What do you do when your actions have no effect? What do you do when all the fibers of your existence scream just to be heard? And yet, only the most deafening silence returns the echoes of your screams. Is there something beyond words and action?

She was starmetal bones with kaleidoscope eyes. A cracked framework of unique beauty, a patchwork portrait filled with swirling brush strokes, an amalgamation of delicate light and detailed shatter. I could write a novel about the way she breathes.

She was poetry written in pen, scribbled and scrawled again and again. Ink splattered across the page. And within those scratched words, those small, sharp incisions, an image can be seen and you're left to wonder what, in the end, this all could mean.

The flicker, the flutter, even thoughts can stutter.

She speaks in heartbeats and the rises of her chest, words forever seared in thoughts that will never rest.

And once the ripples still and the water returns to its unwavering calm, even the pebble that broke its surface will be forgotten. And the world will go on.

She was poetry written in pen, scribbled and scrawled again and again.

He sang softly, less with words and more with thought. She cradled his head, stitching together his fragmented heart.