There is a song in me,
Folded like a letter I forgot to send,
Humming in the hollow of my ribs,
Waiting for hands to pull it into sound.
But my violin is missing a string,
And don't tell me to play around it -
To bow soft over silence and pretend it sings.
I have tried.
I have plucked at ghosts,
Pressed my fingers into empty space,
Listened for echoes where notes should be
But the music just won't come.
Maybe the string is a word I haven't met yet,
A name I've whispered but never owned.
Maybe it's the weight of something I let go of too soon,
Or something I held too long.
All I know is this:
I am an instrument unfinished,
A melody with a missing chorus,
A chord yet to feel harmony
And yet
I swear, the song still breathes.
I can feel it rising,
Like a prayer caught in the throat of the wind,
Like a promise the universe hasn't forgotten.
Maybe the missing string was never meant to be found.
Maybe unfinished symphonies still shake the stars,
Still hum through open hands and untethered hearts.
Maybe beauty isn't in the perfect chords,
But in the aching space between them.
I am undone -
Not lost, not broken,
Just not done,
And in this undone space,
The world is still a canvas,
A place where imagination holds the brush,
Where possibility writes its own rhythm,
And I find the reason to dance,
Not because I have all the answers,
But because I still have
Question to m