"She's writing songs again," she said, little creases appearing on her forehead. "Or at least poems she thinks music might go with someday."
Her tuneless words littered the floor, cracking and trying to thread out her emotions. Meaningless, without even so much as a whistle. Lost with the last line, her questions, observations, so off beat.
"I suppose they're directed at you, but it's hardly a dedication you want to hang onto."
Some words in rings from tea stains. Hours with her back to the door and swirling her pen like a broken wand. She paused only long enough to chew on her knuckles and stare out the window, like it made a difference to the stream of vocabulary that intermingled in her fractured mind.
"Is it meant to heal her? Is it an activity of preservation?"
It was more like revenge, for the broken dictionary and the lost orchestra.
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