There are things I will never admit aloud to anyone. Things that only my scribbled confessions could contain; entire worlds of truth that no one will ever hear a whisper of. I store them inside of me like a black hole in my chest, swirling and gurgling and eternally hungry. I see this void in the pits of my eyes, trapped in the galaxy of my irises; blocked in on all sides by weaved patterns of sea green and angel white and cerulean, held back by the intricate pattern of my soul. I don't always mind the world I keep quiet, but some nights it is louder than others. As if the words, no more than psithurisms, are turning up their own volumes, are dancing in the streets and speaking each others' names into the open night, letting them ring out in the air and float into the space between them and me.
And between the beats of my heart, I hear them the way I can never catch the ghost in my peripheral vision - faintly, distantly, as sand between my fingers on a windy day.