The Song Beneath the Water

Beneath the light, beneath the skin of rain,

the water keeps its covenant with sound.

Each ripple hums what words could not contain,

each echo builds where silence once was drowned.

The song moves slow through chambers of the deep,

a pulse that never learned to fade or flee.

It sings of all I tried but could not keep,

the living thread that tethered you to me.

I hear it now beneath the dream’s divide,

a music older than the tongue of air.

It calls to all the things I’ve tried to hide,

and gathers what was scattered there.

Each note becomes a small return,

a seed of sound, a shining trace.

Through loss and love, I live to learn

how memory harvests grace.

And so I cup the song’s soft weight,

its whisper warm within my hand.

It teaches me to celebrate

the fragments I still understand.

I gather echoes, one by one,

their silver hum, their fleeting art—

for what is lost is never gone,

so long as love remembers heart.