Those songs you whisper to yourself, thinking no one can hear, your lullaby, dear. The rhythm of your hands against the seams, stuck in a dream of fruitless conversation, and mute indignation, and I am here. The coil of nightfall, a lustre that fades, but the dance is engaging, enraging your heart into tears. You want to run in the rain and scream at the sky, wash out the stains, believe in desire. There is no shade for the burning heart: you learn this in your solitude, the crowded colors, the faith renewed. Your lullaby is soft, but I’ve oft heard it; I am here.