7:12 am. Some time later.

It’s been nearly eleven months. And the words don’t walk around in circles inside of me anymore. Instead, they come in pauses and stutters, a single unrefined utterance at five in the morning, before I fall back asleep. The words are still there I suppose. But they have learned a new rhythm, one that is so gently offbeat from my own fingertips. They grow in both the shadows and the yawning sunlight as it wilts beneath the skyline. My mother speaks them to me slowly, when I listen close enough. They are the surface, but mainly, the depths. They are abundant, if I let myself believe it. In truth, the words have not changed. But I have a little bit. I’m coming back to them though. Just now, they said hello, allowing me to remember syllables like symphonies, the ones that used to play inside of me. 

Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll be able to do the same.