Though focused on a solitary woman, the poem reflects a universal human truth: we pass through emptiness, lose connection with self and world, and return by the smallest step a drop, a whisper recognizing: “you are still here".
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I never set out to be one thing. Musical genres feel like prisonswhy choose between the weight of dark metal and the groove of Chicago house when both roll in the same brain? So I didn't decide. I found six separate worlds, each one different roads: some people would call it scattered. I call it roll a die. I got here by leaps and bounds, Just because my journey wasn't out thereit was in.
Lyrics
The petals lay open on the window ledge,
Pale and trembling in the autumn
Breeze.
No water had touched them in
Months not since the house began to
Speak less, letting its words slip
Through the glass like shy, vanishing
Breathe.
The flower seemed to be the last witness
Of voices once alive. It held
Everything: footsteps fading into hush,
Laughter that used to arrive before the
Person, and even the silence thick as
Settled dust, claiming every corner as
Its own.
The woman stared without daring
To touch. She barely remembered placing it
There, on a day when color still
Believed in itself. The pot cracked
Like a forgotten wound, the soil is stiff
As sleep; yet life remained, stubborn,
Clinging to almost nothing the way
Someone still knocks on the door of a
The house they know has been empty for
Years.
“You’re still here, she whispered, unsure
Whether she meant the flower, the
House, or her own fading voice.
She remembered watering it each morning,
Convinced that tending to petals might
Preserve speech by feeding
Roots, she might keep her throat from
Drying into silence. Once, speaking was
A habit, a daily ritual no one questioned.
Now words sat stagnant, like water
In the bottom of an unloved vessel:
Murky, waiting, forgotten.
She brushed the ledge with her fingertips.
Dust rose, quivering like a timid
Ghost. The flower leaned, barely a
Plea so small it might have been imagined,
Yet urgent enough to break through
Her stillness.
On the table, a glass bottle waited.
Inside, a remnant of water whose origin
No one recalled. The woman lifted it.
Strange, how something so small like a
Flower could weigh like memory.
As she tipped her hand toward the soil,
The house shook. Not with life, but
Like a sleeping body that still hears
Its name was whispered from far away.
Only one drop fell. Just one.
The earth drank it like someone recognizing
A taste they had sworn they’d forgotten.
A creak answered from the hallway. Not a
Step only wood shifting, or perhaps a
Sliver of hope returning, thin as
Breathe.
The woman stepped back. The flower, unchanged,
Seemed to alter its fate. A
Thread, invisible yet unmistakable,
Stretched from that single drop to her
Chest as though every smallest act
Might relearn how to speak, how to
Listen, how to remain.
Outside, autumn persisted. Yet for the
For the first time in months, the house held
Something fragile, embryonic a sound
Waiting to be born. A voice not yet formed,
But coming.
