cry, the indelible quiet

like sand to glass, time slips through my fingers. it leaves marks, cuts, scars in the soft flesh of my palm.

my knuckles crack, the same way the skies thunder as rain shrieks from up above. droplets mix, stained pink by blood and water, and stream in peppermint rivulets along the twisting path of my lifeline.

twin colours drip from the tips of my steel-capped nails into the sandsoaked ground.

here i lie, on a thousand lonely beaches, watching the darkening of the clouds as they spit lightning and scorch the ravaged earth.

here i wait, encapsulated by noise, marked by screams the likes of which drag ragged grooves into the psyche. they do not fade. they reek of permanence. the stink of eternity clings to these sounds like the penny-worthless odor of blood.

it clings to the hand i have left bleeding in the sand.

and yet.

the ocean tide, crashing against the silty coast, roars in my ears. the whirlwind storm has become a savage hurricane, a deadly tsunami, a deafening earthquake, and i am the epicenter.

and yet.

the noise is endless,

the racket relentless.

i know no silence.

and yet,

when the world wails at me,

i say nothing back.

it is not for lack of words. it is for their surplus.

for i am the eloquence in fervour, the edge to mindless rage. i am the cold shiver down the spines of the lonely and the heart-in-throat intimacy of first love. i say all that must be said, no more and no less, for i am what haunts the wisest of men and the youngest of children.

i am the quiet.

and as the world erupts, as it rants and raves, as it raises a ruckus to rival that of the trumpets at rapture, i remain silent.

i lie on abandoned beaches with muted thoughts. i dig my presence into the dirt, carved so deep the raging tides cannot wash it away. i comfort the lost and the hurt. i find the beauty in a shallow-cut hand and marvel at the colours it creates.

for the quiet calls,

it cries,

and it shall not be ignored.